


Wheels on the Bus Go Round and Round

by Annie D (scaramouche)



Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fusion, First Time, Kidnapping, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-07
Updated: 2009-10-07
Packaged: 2017-10-03 04:02:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scaramouche/pseuds/Annie%20D
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An alternate Die Hard 4, fused with Jan de Bont's Speed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wheels on the Bus Go Round and Round

The plan is to drop into LA, see Lucy, _ maybe_ see Holly, and then make a break for it. John doesn’t exactly have a good track record where the City of Angels is concerned, and not only because the whole Nakatomi thing sucks as far as first impressions go. So when Holly had called to ask whether he’d be interested in attending some big project presentation thing Lucy’s doing for school, he had paused, only for her little sigh of disappointment to settle the issue.

So he’d said yes.

He’s crossing his fingers _and_ his toes this time.

 

* * *

 

“So how was it?”

Allen looks good. In the four years that John hasn’t seen him, he’s gotten a whole new bunch of laugh lines around his eyes. That, plus his grin of a life well-lived, should make John hate him a little, but he can’t, not when Al’s kids are the most gorgeous in the world (after Lucy and Jack).

“Could’ve been worse,” John says easily. “Could’ve been _better_, but hey, it’s not like I can afford to be choosy. I’m just lucky she didn’t kick me out.”

Al laughs, a roly-poly Santa Claus of a guffaw that has one or two of the closer patrons in the diner glancing up irritably. They can suck it, because John’s enjoying this conversation right now, which is more than he can say for last night’s dinner in Casa de Gennero. He hadn’t expected Holly to invite him to dinner at her place, but he figured he’d better go in order to be polite, only to realize later that she had not expected him to say _yes_. But John stuck it out, making small talk with Holly and the new lawyer boyfriend, hoping that seeing Lucy (who was running late travelling down from campus) would be worth the agony.

“I don’t even want to know,” Al says.

“Sure you do,” John says, smiling over his cup of coffee. “You got a girl of your own, don’t you?”

“Yeah, a miniature one,” Al says, though his eyes are fond. “But you’re saying that Lucy outdid her mother?”

John nods. “Oh yeah. I don’t think anything fazes her anymore.” Apparently weathering the worst of being a stubborn cop’s wife causes one to come out on the other side positively zen. Tim’s probably a walk in the park (stable, reliable, _boring_) compared to John, but hey, whatever floats her boat.

Al sighs. “I guess you’re going to tell me.”

“It was over dessert.” John sits back, savoring the storytelling. “So we’re having a good time, conversation’s okay, I’m showing caring fatherly interest… And suddenly Lucy stands up and starts _shouting _at me – in front of the others, gotta say that again – that I wouldn’t be so damn nosey about her love life if I had one of my own. What the hell?”

Al’s laugh is not the sympathetic response John had been fishing for. “Girl’s definitely yours.”

“I think there was an insult in there,” John says, eyeing him. “Is it being nosey if I’m asking about whichever shmuck she’s dating this month? Isn’t that being a concerned parent?”

“Your definition of being a concerned parent would include stalking out her dates and smacking them around a little if they get too friendly.” He pauses, studying John’s expression. “You _didn’t_.”

“So I _care_!” John exclaims. “Sue me!”

“McClane, you are truly a specimen,” Al chortles. “An example to us all.”

“Thanks.”

“But in all seriousness,” Al says, “Your kids do love you. But you forget that they’re just like _ you_.”

John hides his wry smile behind his coffee cup, marveling at how this is just the story of his life. He flew out here just to see his baby girl, only to end up enjoying this exchange over breakfast far more. It’s not like he’s exactly helping the situation, he knows, because he could’ve taken up Holly’s offer to join them for breakfast as well, but he’d skedaddled from the hotel the moment Al had called, just so he’d have an excuse.

Fuck that. Better to change the topic. “Hey, I saw you on tv the other day.”

“You did?” Al says, surprised. “And why didn’t I get a call from you after?”

“I figured you were too busy celebrating.” John reaches over to slap Al’s shoulder a little. “Good one.”

“I had a good team,” Al says, eyes lowered to the table. He’s such an easy-going guy that it’s always a bit of a surprise to see how solemn his face gets when he talks about work. John hasn’t seen him in action since Nakatomi, but back then he’d been a desk-bound Sergeant, not the bomb squad Lieutenant he is now.

“That hostage case was pretty intense,” Al adds. “What kind of mind comes up with the idea of using an _ elevator_? I haven’t seen anything like _that_ in a while, not that you ever get used it.”

John taps his coffee cup against Al’s, drawing a smile. “I hear you.”

The buzzing sound of Al’s radio signals that their breakfast is coming to a close. Al takes a quick final swig before saying, “Speaking of work.”

“Go do your thing,” John says, content to nurse his coffee for a while.

He doesn’t have that many options right now. There are a couple of hours to kill before he needs to go to the civic center to watch Lucy do her whatever speech, but he really doesn’t want to go back to the hotel and stare at the walls. Going to Holly’s place isn’t an option either, and he’s also _really_ not in the mood to be a tourist right now.

John’s thoughts don’t make it far enough to reach a decision, because Al’s back.

“There’s a situation,” he says, voice low so not to startle those nearby. “I have to get back to the station.”

“Yeah, sure,” John says, nodding.

But Al’s still standing there, looking at him. John knows what he looks like when he’s making a decision, so he waits, trying to not let his curiosity get the best of him. When he finally does speak, his voice is too calm. “All of you will be going to the center later today, right?”

“I wrote down what time I’ve got to be there,” John says, remembering the post-it in his wallet. He glances at his watch. “But Lucy’s likely heading there about now, said she’s got to set up her whatcha-whatever. I offered to give her a ride, but.” He shrugs.

“Driving herself?”

“Bus, I think,” John says, and there’s a cold chill up his spine at the way Al freezes. “What is it?”

“You might want to call her,” Al whispers. “Take her there yourself.”

John grabs his arm. “Why?”

“Just make the call.” Al moves quickly when he wants to, twisting his arm free and exiting the diner without looking back, but John manages to stop him just before he makes it to his car.

John presses himself against the door, blocking it. “Talk to me.”

Al sighs. John knows that he’s not supposed to be sharing this information, but there’s more than protocol when it comes to the two of them. So Al tells him what he knows, speaking clear and concise like a man on a deadline.

By the time Al finally gets his keys in the ignition, John’s running.

 

* * *

 

A huge part of Lucy wants to crawl under her covers and stay there until next Tuesday. And she would, if her covers weren’t in her apartment 60 miles away. As it is, she’s in her mom’s house, getting dressed and listening tentatively to the sounds beyond the door.

Technically, this is still her room. There are enough of her old things in here to merit ownership, but she still feels like a visitor; just that much out of place despite the welcome of her surroundings. She thinks that it may have something to do with how this is a place of mom’s laws, not her own.

This is also a place of mom’s ideas, the latest of which was to call dad and guilt-trip him into flying almost three thousand miles to a city he hates just so that they can watch each other eat. This is _so_ not what she needs right now.

The knock, when it arrives, makes her jump.

“Lucy?” mom says, her voice only a little muffled. “Are you coming down for breakfast or not?”

“Just some last minute touches I have to get done,” Lucy says. “I’ll be right down.”

She does, after sending a quick email to Jack to let him know how lucky he is that he’s missing the proceedings.

A silver lining, if it could be considered that, is that all this unnecessary homebrew drama’s sufficiently distracting her from getting stressed out about her presentation. Public speaking in front of a thousand people should be a piece of cake compared to last night’s dinner. (Dad’s expression when she’d lost it on him has burned itself into the back of her eyelids.)

Dad doesn’t know when to push, when to hold back, when to quit. It’s really easy to justify herself, even if the excuses have run pale due to overuse. The thing with dad is the perfect example of the old adage that absence makes the heart grow fonder. The key word here being: _absence_.

“Lucy?” There goes the second knock.

“Coming.”

The thing that drives her nuts about dad is that he takes any sort of softness as permission to be as outrageous as possible, as though a snide comment from her gives him the right to be mean to Tim too, when it _isn’t_. Dad could do with looking up subtle in the dictionary sometimes. Then, of course, there’s the fact that the way to get _anything_ through his thick skull is to shout it at him, so it’s not like she has much choice.

Right then, the memory comes unbidden of Lucy’s project groupmate, Kevin, yelling at her that she’s a ‘bossy mcbossypants’ and shouldn’t get so damn defensive at other people’s criticism of her leadership techniques.

Thanks, subconscious. That’s just what she needed before her morning coffee.

Anyway, it looks like she’s set for the day, so she finally makes her way down for breakfast.

“Morning,” she says.

Mom nods from where she’s drinking her coffee, while Tim looks up from his paper to say, “Hey.”

 

“I’m running late,” Lucy says, grabbing some toast. “Dad not here?”

“He went out to meet Allen,” mom says.

There’s a sour rush of guilt at that, like maybe it’s Lucy’s fault he’s not here, not that it would be much better if he was. But she can’t think about that right now. She has to focus, get to the civic center, and make sure Kevin and the others don’t mess things up with their booth, so she grabs some toast, fills up her thermos with coffee and heads out. “Okay, going now!”

It’s a blessing that the bus is pulling up just as she hits the main street.

That’s a good start, but there’s an itch under her skin that’s telling her it’s going to be one _ those_ days. The dad situation is only one part of it – a part that she can put aside for now, which is why when her cell rings and it’s his number on the screen, the flare of annoyance is brighter than usual. “Dad?”

“_Where are you_?”

He sounds tense, but dad gets tense when they go _grocery shopping_, so it could mean anything. “I’m on the way to the center, I’ll see you—”

“_No, no, no, Lucy, get off the bus_,” he says quickly.

“Dad, I’m going to be late. Anyway, I’m already on.” The doors slide shut behind her.

“_Lucy, please, just get down_.”

“The bus is _moving_, dad,” Lucy says, dropping into an empty seat. “I can’t just walk out the window.” She waits for his response, half-curious what this about it, but there’s nothing. “Dad?” A glance at the screen confirms that the call got cut off, so she puts her phone down, figuring that if it’s important, he’ll call her back.

 

* * *

 

There is something unnerving about Los Angeles’ oversized highways. Matt’s sure that all the asphalt and concrete he’s seeing crisscrossed in front of his eyes are real, but his brain keeps telling him that they can’t be, because they’re too broad, too clean, too plain. It’s the only explanation Matt can think of, of why he’s still staring out the window like a tourist at the near unchanging sights, instead of mentally preparing himself for the day’s meeting.

Not that Matt’s nervous about it – that’s the starched shirt talking. He knows his stuff, he’s done this a dozen times over, and he’s even brought a tie with him this time (though it’s in his bag for the moment). It’s the travelling-in-a-foreign-city part that throws him out of whack, a different sort of jet lag that rattles his head and makes him second-guess himself.

Yeah, that’s probably why he’s staring at the tops of cars as they zoom past the window.

Matt glances at his watch, and then tugs at the uncomfortable collar of his shirt (it’s collared, so it’s uncomfortable by definition). They’re nervous ticks, best gotten out of the way before he gets to his destination and accidentally vomits all over the guy he’s trying to sell his new log program to.

Matt stops thinking about that when persistent honking draws him back into the world of the living.

He looks out the window, and is in a funny way cheered up that, apparently, rudeness is the same no matter what city you’re in. A convertible has drawn up right next to their bus, and the driver is honking repeatedly. It cannot be at _them_, because their driver isn’t doing anything other than driving sensibly in his freeway lane. Matt, because he is human, cranes his head to get a good look at the moron.

There’s two guys in the car, and they don’t look like the hotshot idiots he’d been expecting. The one in the driver’s seat actually looks respectable in a dark blazer and boring slicked-back hair, but that only goes to show that douchebags comes in all sorts of packages. The other guy, though, looks like trouble in a leather jacket, his bald head catching the glint of the sun when the nutcase actually _stands up _ on the seat and waves at their driver.

“This ain’t no bus stop!” the bus driver yells ineffectually at the closed door.

Matt’s already composing the blog post in his head when the convertible swerves perilously close and the bald maniac _punches_ the freakin’ door.

Someone behind Matt laughs nervously. “That guy must really want on this bus.”

Matt can’t disagree, because the guy’s still yelling at their driver and waving an arm in what’s an unmistakable request to get the damn doors open. A part of Matt’s curious what the hell this is all about, but he goes still with nervous surprise when the bus driver does pull the lever that swing the doors open.

When the guy leaps from the convertible on to the bus, Matt mentally shifts his stereotypical opinion on adrenaline junkies. He didn’t know they could come in that shape and age.

There’s a flurry of movement when one the passengers rushes to the front of the bus, yelling, “What are you _doing_?”

At first Matt thinks that the girl has some major balls for yelling in the guy’s face that way, but when he reaches out for her, the movement betrays familiarity between them. “You’ve got to…” The words drop out of hearing range when the guy talks softly.

“No!” she snaps. “I’m not going anywhere if you don’t give me an explanation!”

Another passenger, a tall guy in a blue shirt, gets to his feet. “Sir, I have to ask you to stop harassing this young lady.”

“If you don’t mind,” leather jacket guy says, “I’m having a conversation with my daughter.”

“I repeat, sir,” blue shirt guy says, though he sounds a little nervous. “Please stop harassing this young lady.”

“Thank you, but I’ve got this,” the girl says.

“No, you don’t.” Leather jacket reaches into a pocket for a badge. Well, that explains it, except where it totally _doesn’t_. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m with the NYPD, please stay seated and remain calm.”

“_Dad_,” his daughter says, exasperated.

“Lucy.” He gives her a wary, though patient, look. “Police business.”

The epic blog post gets even more epic when _another_ guy suddenly leaps out from his seat towards the girl (Lucy), grabbing her in a chokehold and – oh _shit_, there’s metal involved now.

Surreal just _starts _ to explain how it feels to watch a stand-off live and in living color, as if Matt’s eyes and brain have fallen out of alignment. It’s like, if he stays really still, maybe he’ll wake up, only he doesn’t, because now Leather Jacket’s shouting at Gun Guy to put down his weapon and back away, something about it _him_, but Gun Guy doesn’t believe that, yelling at the driver that he had better stop the bus right now.

Then Lucy twists, doing something fancy with her arms and freeing herself enough to kick the guy in a knee, giving Leather Jacket the opening he needs to tackle Gun Guy to the floor. They struggle, grunting and loud where they roll and slam against the seats, eventually falling to the front of the bus in a mess of limbs as they both reach for control of the gun being waved the air.

Every muscle in Matt’s body is screaming to disappear, keep away, blend in the background, be safe. Hence, there’s no explanation for why when – after the gun goes off and the driver’s window is splattered red – _he _ rushes forward to take the wheel.

 

* * *

 

John hits the guy one more time, just hard enough to promise a hell of a lot more where that came from should he even _think _anything funny, and clicks the handcuffs to the seat rail.

“There’s so much blood!”

Okay, this one’s a little tougher. The driver’s shot in the shoulder, and the woman currently holding him isn’t strong enough to keep enough pressure on the wound. “Can someone spare some hands, here?” Another guy in a yellow hardhat crouches close, murmuring an acknowledgement. John switches his hands for the lady’s in pressing against the wound. “Keep it firm, and don’t let him move if you can help it. Lucy?”

She starts at the mention of her name, eyes a little unsteady when they meet his. “Yeah, I’m…” Pale, disheveled and holding her arms around her chest a little too tightly.

“Let me see,” he says, reaching for her.

At the slight touch of his fingers, she flinches and pulls back, cradling the wrist in the protective cocoon of her other arm. It’s probably a sprain, the result of when she’d twisted out of that guy’s chokehold, but John can’t know for sure. What he does know is that, when she was thirteen, she’d damn near pulled out her Achilles tendon in the middle of a tennis match and hadn’t told anyone because she hadn’t wanted to forfeit the competition.

“I’m _okay_,” Lucy says, not that he believes her. “It’s just, a little, I’m fine. He needs to get to a hospital.”

“Yeah,” John says, reluctantly turning back to wounded man. It hits him then that he just might have made things a hell of a lot worse by running to the so-called rescue, only for the driver to get shot and Lucy to get pissed at him again. Great going, dumbass.

From the driver’s seat another voice speaks up: “Can someone tell me what to do?”

John looks up to where a civilian is behind the steering wheel. His eyes are steady on the road, with the only tell-tale sign of nerves being the flush high in his cheeks. John hadn’t seen him take the seat – he’d been too preoccupied with the shmo John didn’t know from Adam mistaking his presence as a personal vendetta – but he’s relieved to have at least one less ball to juggle right now.

“Do you know the way to the nearest hospital?” John asks.

Kid shakes his head. “I’m not from around here.”

One of the passengers raises her hand. “I know the way.”

“Someone direct him, please.” John wipes his forehead with his sleeve as a young woman shifts forward to the task, pointing out the way.

He can feel Lucy’s heavy gaze on his back. She isn’t saying anything, but he knows she’s seething, waiting for some semblance of a logical explanation from him, only John doesn’t have one to offer other than he chased this bus down because she could have been in danger.

_Could _ have. Not _is_.

That’s not going to cut it as far as Lucy’s concerned, but that doesn’t matter right now.

He reaches his jacket for his cell, hoping to contact Al. He bites back another curse when he sees that the network bars are down to nil. “Can I borrow your phone?”

Lucy’s face is still stoic as she silently hands hers to him.

“Huh.” He gets to his feet. “Does anyone here have a working cellphone?”

It takes a moment for the rest of the passengers, most of them still shaken, to stir into movement. John isn’t surprised when all the answers come in the negative. He’d hoped they wouldn’t be, but isn’t that _just_ his luck?

 

* * *

 

“Are you watching this?” It’s a rhetorical question, amusement lilting Mai’s voice when she says it.

Gabriel glances at the bar at the bottom of the screen. “Bus 2525. That certainly makes things interesting.”

“Shall I open the main frequency?” she asks.

“Not yet,” Gabriel says. “But patch me through to them.”

 

* * *

 

Matt had never thought before about what it would be like to drive a bus, but if he had, he’d have been surprised by how heavy the wheel is. It’s inconveniently large, keeping his arms wider apart than he’s used to, and he actually has to _ concentrate_ if he wants to keep the bus going in a straight line – which he would like to, and not only because there’s a man possibly bleeding to death just a couple of feet behind him.

“Officer?” Matt tentatively calls out. The cop is talking with his daughter, asking her to help keep everyone calm. Her voice, when she replies, has a demanding edge that matches his. Matt strains to listen.

“Just do this for me, for _them_,” the cop says. “Lucy, please.”

Lucy doesn’t answer. When Matt glances up in the mirror, he can see that she’s walked away from her father to talk to the other passengers.

Matt feel unsettled. Everything’s clogged up and messy in his head, leaving the rest of him jittery and nervous. What he needs is something to focus on, and a problem with the phones fits the bill. “Officer!”

 

“McClane.” The cop comes up to Matt’s side, gruff and annoyed, either at the use of the O word, or because Matt’s speaking to him. “And it’s Detective.”

“Detective McClane,” Matt says firmly, trying to find the sweet spot between insistent and pushy. “If you can pass me my bag right there, my communicator has a direct sat connection. I should be able to call out even if the network’s down.”

“You can do that? Sounds illegal,” McClane says, but he reaches over for Matt’s bag anyway.

“People do it all the time,” Matt says, knowing that that isn’t a proper response to either of McClane’s statements. “Just give it to me and—”

“No, you keep your eyes on the road,” McClane says. “Talk me through it.”

Matt wants to protest that there’s only light traffic along the stretch of freeway before them, but then he remembers that it’s probably a bad idea to talk back to a guy he’d just seen leap on to a moving bus to talk to his daughter. “Okay, take out the, the grey one with lots of buttons.”

There’s the sound of rustling, McClane’s grubby fingers digging deep into Matt’s bag and making faint, yet distressing, sounds. “You got a lot of junk in here.”

Matt sighs. “Maybe we should switch places.”

“What the hell is this?”

Matt flushes, realizing that he’s found the graphic novel he’d brought along to read. “Just some stuff, oh god, please don’t—” A faint ripping sound makes him groan. “Please don’t tell me you tore New Flesh, because that’d just be—”

“Relax, a little tape and it’ll be fine,” McClane says. “You’re a little old to be reading comics, anyway.”

“Haha, _comics_, yeah, silly me,” Matt’s voice goes higher, inappropriately hysterical. “Do you even know what a communicator looks like?”

“Keep your pants on. Is this it?”

Hallelujah. “Yeah, that’s it. Open it up and—”

“_Bus 2525_.”

Matt damn near almost jumps out of his seat because the electronically-distorted voice is coming from somewhere near his lap. McClane, who apparently doesn’t waste time being fazed, reaches out for the radio receiver and says into it, “Copy that, this is Bus 2525.”

“_Are we having a good time?_”

Matt can almost hear the frown in McClane’s voice. “Who is this?”

“_Here are the rules_.” The voice sounds predominantly male, with a side order of smarter-than-thou. “_There is a bomb on your bus. Your speed is currently 68 miles per hour. If it drops below 50, the bomb will be triggered._”

Matt’s hands go cold; his foot stiffens where it’s pressed against the pedal.

“Did he just say there’s a bomb?” The lady right behind Matt gets to her feet. “Oh my god, is there a _bomb_?” Her too-loud words send a ripple down the rest of the bus, and someone at the back shrieks.

McClane tries to calm the lady down but she’s near hysterical. Lucy ends up having to come forward to mediate, which is a good thing, because the voice on the radio is speaking again.

“_Bus 2525, are you still there?_”

McClane brings the receiver back to his mouth. “Yeah, still here,” he says calmly, though Matt gets the impression that he’s barely keeping his anger in check. “Are you the shithead responsible for the explosion this morning?”

“_Ah, so you have heard of my work_,” the voice says. “_Yes, that was a taste of things to come. I presume that I have your attention now?_”

“I know you have an IOU of my foot up your ass,” McClane responds.

“_There is a bomb on your bus. You’d think it would be more productive to focus on that._”

“I’m gonna take that bomb and shove down your throat, how’s about that?”

There’s a pause that makes Matt’s skin crawl.

He thinks that maybe this is it. He’s going to die here in the middle of a city he barely knows.

But that doesn’t happen. What does happen is that there’s a soft electronic click, and the voice is suddenly amplified through the bus’ speaker system. “_Ladies and gentlemen, users of the Los Angeles public transportation system._”

“Hey,” McClane says, irritated. “I thought we were having a conversation.”

“_There is a bomb on your bus_,” the voice continues, ignoring or not hearing McClane’s comment. There is something slightly different about the voice now, something colder and more impersonal, like a recording. “_But if you are calm and do not panic, you shall be safe. Here are the rules. Rule one: no one gets on or off the bus, no exceptions. Rule two: the speed of the bus cannot drop below 50 miles per hour. Breaking either rule will ensure that the bomb will be triggered and your lives significantly shortened. Have a nice day._”

“Hey, asshole!” McClane yells into the radio. “We have wounded on the bus. They need to get to a hospital.”

The voice, now back on the small radio speaker, says, “_Then you should’ve been more polite._”

“You won’t miss two. There’s still plenty of us left to kill,” McClane says.

“_Say please_.”

“Please.” McClane doesn’t even pause. “Let the wounded get off the bus.”

The voice is quiet for a moment. “_All right. As an act of good faith, the two wounded may be removed from the bus._” The voice sounds reluctant and maybe even a little intrigued.

McClane grunts, and the radio falls silent.

“Well, _that’s_ a relief,” Matt says, kinda amazed that he can still breathe.

McClane shoots him a look, sharp and surprised, like he’d forgotten that Matt was there. “The shithead’s watching us.”

“He knew the speed we were going, too,” Matt points out. “Probably hacked the Metro.”

“Hacked the what?”

“I’m not an expert,” Matt says, “But I think most buses are equipped with GPS monitoring systems these days, you know, for security and traffic management? It shouldn’t be hard to hack the system, get the information he needs. And, of course, there’s Big Brother right there.” He tilts his head to the CCTV camera above his head.

“Great,” McClane says, sparing a moment to eyeball the camera.

When he turns away to check on the passengers, it occurs to Matt that he can’t hear anyone else in the bus freaking out. In fact, there’s a very intense _lack_ of noise, and as soon as he notices that, the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

There’s now a whole bus full of people who are relying on him to not blow them up.

He takes a deep breath, glances at the speedometer, and jumps in his seat (_again_) when McClane reappears close to his shoulder.

“Look, kid,” McClane says, voice soft enough that Matt knows these words are meant only for him. “It’s okay to be afraid. But I need to know if I can count on you to drive and keep it together.”

“I’ll just pretend this is a Hummer.” Matt honks as he overtakes a slower car. “It’s always been a secret fantasy of mine to drive something this stupidly huge, just to see if I could, you know, take corners and stuff. The speed thing’s a bonus, but the bomb bit, not so much.”

“You got a name?”

“Yeah, Daisy Duke, got a lot of shit for it as a kid, don’t make it worse.” Matt knows he’s making an ass of himself, but he can’t help himself. He’s jittery, his head’s full of white noise, he’s finding it hard to focus on _ anything_.

“Well, Daisy Duke, the moment you want off, just tell me.”

Then there’s McClane, who’s more pissed than worried, and it’s funny what one finds comforting in a situation like this. Matt latches on.

“I can drive,” he says. There’s a lot more Matt can tag on to that statement, like how he doesn’t want to drive knowing what’s at stake, but in a selfish way it’s better than being a passenger because he thinks that it would be worse if he had to sit back and take whatever’s coming. But he doesn’t say any of that, doesn’t even dare think it too deeply in case it makes him lose his grip on the stupidly heavy wheel in his hands.

“I’m not going anywhere,” McClane says, and Matt believes it. “But you have to tell me when it gets too much.”

“Gotcha,” Matt says quietly.

“I don’t think we can go to the hospital now,” McClane says, briefly glancing back to where the driver is still on the floor. “We just have to keep moving, keep above 50.”

“Are we going to be okay?” Matt regrets the question the moment it’s past his lips, because there’s no right answer. McClane could try to soothe, promising that everything will be fine and no one’s going to get hurt; a part of Matt needs that reassurance, but the rest of him bristles at the possibility of a platitude.

“I’m gonna do my best,” McClane says, finally. Matt steals a glance sideways, but McClane’s not looking at him. He’s looking out at the freeway, eyes slightly distant and forehead creasing – for a moment, he looks much older, and tired. But even older and tired, he’s still a world stronger than Matt could have any hope of being.

“Matt. My name’s Matt,” he says, and McClane’s eyes sharpen, turning to focus on him.

“Keep driving, Matt,” McClane says. “And talk me through this phone thing of yours.”

 

* * *

 

It’s always a little crazy at the start of it.

That’s how it has to be when everyone’s scrambling to get on the same page, but there _is_ method to what looks like madness.

“Where’s the fucking bomb squad?” Captain Morton bellows.

“Reeves called in, they’re heading out, sir,” Fisher says.

Next to her, Adam’s got his headphones on, re-listening to the recording to find any helpful clues. Bill’s just behind them, talking on the phone with the Metro rep, trying to get them to calm down while extricating the information they need.

Al’s here, in the eye of the hurricane, trying to see where the pieces fit.

This has to be the same guy who was behind the elevator hostage situation. It’s only a hunch at this point, but Al’s instincts have rarely served him wrong over the years, and there’s a certain complicated elegance to this hostage situation that perfectly mirrors what went down at the McTiernan Towers just a couple of weeks ago. They’re still studying the recording they’d received this morning just after the first bus exploded on the beach, but the only thing they’ve learned so far from it is that there’s a bomb wired to explode on a moving bus somewhere in the city.

Suddenly his phone goes off.

“_Al_.”

Well, damn. “Hey.”

“_Guess where I am._”

Al shakes his head in disbelief. Sometimes he can almost believe that the universe really does have it in for McClane. On the other hand, this is something they can actually _use_. Al pulls away from the phone to shout: “We got contact with the bus!”

The attention in the room shifts.

“Okay, John, sit tight,” Al says. “Bomb squad’s on the move.”

“Need the bus number!” Bill shouts.

John, having heard that, says, “_2525_. _ You better tell your boys to get here quick, there’s a man down, gunshot to the shoulder – don’t ask. Got permission to get him and Lucy off.”_

Al frowns. “The mastermind talked to you?”

“_Over the radio, yeah_,” John confirms. “_Shithead called us, told us about the rules_. _ No one else gets on or off; bus can’t drop below 50. We’re okay so far, but this traffic’s not going to last forever._”

“We know about the rules,” Al says. He glances at his watch. “Guy’s supposed to call us in twenty minutes on details for the ransom drop-off.”

At the desk, Bill announces, “We got a position on 2525!”

“Get those boys out there!” Morton’s rushing out the door, exchanging a look with Al just before he disappears.

“_Oh, and he’s also done something so none of the phones here have reception. No one can call in or out._”

“So how’d you manage to get through?”

“_Got a hackboy here_,” John says. “_This is the only working phone on board, so you guys gotta use it._”

Al points to Fisher. “Call the patrol cars, anyone who can help control traffic and keep Bus 2525 in the clear.”

“_Oh, shit_!”

Al starts. “What’s happening, Roy?”

“_Traffic. Will call you back._”

 

* * *

 

Up front, their replacement driver is shouting. “What do I do, _what do I do_?”

“Emergency lane!” dad yells. “Just take it, don’t worry about the—”

They swipe the barrier barrels, water flying everywhere.

“Wow, that was easy,” the driver mutters, glancing at the side mirror. “This is allowed, right? You’re not gonna arrest me for reckless driving, right?”

“Just keep going,” dad mutters.

Lucy sighs, turning her attention back to the passengers clustered around her. “My father knows what he’s doing.”

It’s mostly true: he doesn’t panic under pressure, is excellent at improvising, and has his priorities right (in a situation like this). This doesn’t necessarily mean that he has a _plan_, but it does mean that they have a guy in charge who will make damned sure that every single one of them will get out of this, if it’s the last thing he does.

But right now, he’s in front, focused on the traffic and trying to get Uncle Al on the line again. This leaves Lucy here, sitting on the floor next to Hawthorne, the bus’ actual driver, as Beth cradles him in her arms.

She knows some of their names now: Simone, Carlos, Ruck, David, Natsuko, Daniel. They’re gravitating towards her because she’s one of _them_ – regular, normal, everyday – and she isn’t panicking. She doesn’t tell them that that part of her psyche’s probably broken, thanks to her having been kidnapped twice in her life (so far). That kind of thing happens when she has parents like hers.

It’s a matter of focus. While other thoughts are circling inappropriately at the back of her head (mom’s gonna be upset, Kevin’s gonna mess up the presentation), Lucy knows that what’s important right now is to get Hawthorne’s head higher.

“You got family?” Lucy asks him, as she and Beth adjust his position.

“The missus.” Hawthorne winces at the movement, but it’s a good thing that he can still feel pain. “I wonder if she’s watching tv now.”

“What’s her name?” Beth asks.

“Minnie,” Hawthorne says with a soft cough. Beth takes up the thread, asking about her, how they met, what she was doing this morning.

That leaves Lucy free to look up to the front of the bus, where dad’s telling their replacement driver to get off the freeway. She can see why: the traffic’s clogged up front and there’s no way they can keep the 50 minimum without attempting to monster truck their way through.

Even so, she has to comment. “Is that a good idea? How will city traffic be in any way better than freeway traffic?”

“We have a police escort coming,” dad says. “If we’re lucky, they’ll find us before it comes to that.”

“McClane, what do I do now?” the driver says frantically.

“Get on the shoulder,” dad says, then louder, “I said the _shoulder_!”

“What, the shoulder?” Everyone tilts a little to the side when he swerves. “Oh god, this isn’t even – _oh shit_, sorry! Sorry, sorry, sorry! I didn’t mean to do that! You’re a witness! You know I didn’t mean to do that!”

“When they ask, tell them you were only doing what I told you to do.” He lifts the communicator to his ear. “Al, talk to me.”

Close to Lucy’s shoulder, Beth says in a small voice, “I don’t want to die.” Her expression is awful, desperate.

“The best thing we can do is stay calm,” Lucy says. “If we panic, that’ll make it worse.”

Ruck laughs nervously. “How can it possibly get worse?”

“Things can _always_ get worse.” She feels bad at the way he flinches, so she softens her voice, “If we stay calm, we can think. We can be ready when the LAPD get here and tell us what to do.”

“Oh _shit_ oh shit …” Matt runs a red light, the bus climbing on the pavement to get out of the way of an oncoming car.

“You heard that nutcase,” Ruck says to Lucy. “No on gets on or off the bus. What difference does it make if the LAPD get here?”

“What we need—” dad says, loud enough so everyone can hear him, “—is to get to some place where we can drive around in circles without getting in anyone’s way. Stadium, park, anything. Help us out here.”

The discussion is a good, if brief, distraction from what sitting right under their asses. Dad’s good at this part, making eye-contact and learning names where he can.

“How about the airport?” Carlos suggests.

“Too far,” Simone says. “We’d have to get back on the freeway, the traffic’s going to be the same.”

“If the police escort’s with us, it shouldn’t be too bad,” Carlos argues.

Matt honks the horn. “Get out of the way! Do they think I’ve turned on the hazard lights because they’re _ pretty_?”

 

“There’s the new highway,” Beth suggests. “It’s just back that way, and I don’t think it’ll be as congested.”

“You getting all that?” dad says into the communicator. A sudden noise makes him look up sharply, the communicator falling away from his ear a little when his hand drops. “What the…”

Someone is honking. The sound is the same loud, trilling bleat of a bus horn, but it’s definitely not them. When Lucy lifts herself up on to her knees, she sees another bus heading right towards them.

It’s not slowing down.

“Get out of the way, what is _wrong_ with them?” Matt honks right back. “I actually have right of way this time!”

Dad’s voice is a low rumble. “Matt, get on the pavement. Let them go past.”

“What? But we’re—”

“Let them _go past_.”

Their bus bumps a little when Matt gets half the wheels up on the pavement. It’s still not quite enough, not when the other bus doesn’t seem to take the hint and is still roaring towards them, honking all the way.

“Heads down, everyone,” Lucy says, and those around her obey.

It won’t help if they get rammed by the bus, but they shouldn’t have to watch. Lucy herself stays where she is, dreadful realization sinking in as the other bus _keeps coming_, and then at the last moment swerves just enough to go past, with maybe a foot to spare between them.

It’s certainly close enough to see that the other bus has the same set of faces: pale, scared, everyday people, and a bus driver who’s barely hanging on.

“There’s more than one bus!” dad says into the communicator. “Do you hear me? He’s rigged more than one bus! Crazy son of a bitch!”

“Oh my god!” someone shrieks.

“What number is it?” dad shouts. “Someone catch the number!”

Lucy scrambles up on to a seat, but it’s too late, the bus is too far.

Her mind is racing. If there really is another bus out there in the same situation, it’ll change things. The LAPD will be stretched thinner, the guy behind it will be hiked up a couple of notches on the danger-meter, and the people in the city will _really_ have something to talk about.

“Matt, get on that, turn.” Dad points. “Turn, damn it, turn!”

“Turning!” Matt makes a hard left, wheels squealing as they get on to another road.

“We’ve got to catch that other bus,” dad says. “There! Go!”

“_What_, why?”

“Because the LAPD is tracking us and we can lead them right to it,” dad says.

“I think I saw it!” Daniel says. He and another passenger start shouting directions, multiple eyes directing Matt to switch through another semi-busy intersection to where they’ve tracked down their twin.

It’s not swerving erratically, but it’s obvious that their driver isn’t concentrating.

“Al, did you hear me?” dad says into the phone. “Yeah, it looks like there’s another bus that – okay, no, I’m not _positive_, but it’s making like a Tasmanian Devil with rabies and you better get a fucking helicopter out here, that’s what we need. Does anyone have pen and paper?”

Lucy passes him a sharpie from her bag just as Beth hands over a yellow flyer. Bracing the flyer against the window, dad writes in big block letters: _BOMB ON BUS?_

“Okay, what do I do now?” Matt asks, now that they’re drawn up right behind the other bus.

“Go beside them,” dad says.

Matt has to wait until the other bus has entered a main street, and then hits the gas in moving up alongside the other. Dad presses the flyer against the window, pointing at it.

In their twin, the passengers go nuts, some standing, some nodding frantically: YES.

Dad pushes down the window, and what follows is a shouted conversation of how he’s a cop, help’s on the way, please stay calm, stay behind them.

“Stay behind _us_?” Matt says. “Their driver is actually trained for this!”

“Kid,” dad says, “_No one_ has training for this. Now get in front.”

They take the lead, Matt following dad’s instructions to get on to another main road, honking loudly all the way as a warning. There’s only one close call when a bunch of pedestrians have to scatter from where they were starting to cross the street, but Matt handles that without panicking, only laughing nervously once they’re out of harm’s way.

Dad’s talking on the communicator, Matt’s babbling to himself, and Lucy’s the one who notices the third bus.

“Dad?”

He gets into the seat in front of her, following her finger to where she’s pointing. The other bus, which does look like it’s going faster and swerving a little more aggressively than it really needs to, is on a flyover quite a distance away, so there’s no way to get to it and make sure.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Dad winces. “Sorry, language.”

Lucy rolls her eyes, biting down the urge to swear right back at him, when it unexpectedly hits her that they’ve been on this bus for maybe an hour now, and that makes it the longest time they’ve spent in each other’s company without either one of them storming off (because there’s nowhere to storm off _ to_), making this a wholly different kind of messed up for them.

It’s been a while since Lucy’s seen dad in action, so as she watches what’s unfolding in front of her, it occurs to her now that maybe this is the _only_ thing he’s good at, like he can only function at a hundred miles per adrenaline rush. Anything less and he stumbles, falters. He doesn’t know how to slow down, except for the part where (and here’s another jolt of realization) he is trying in his own way to learn the lessons she’d hoped for years that he would, but he’s getting them wrong because there’s no one to teach him.

Except, a quiet voice in Lucy’s head says, maybe that’s what she’s supposed to do. After all, she loves him the way he does her: fierce and sharp, like everything about them that’s soft got left behind somewhere.

Lucy’s not her mother. She can’t give up.

“Hey, dad,” Lucy says, though she freezes up a little when he looks at her. “Is that Uncle Al on the line?”

“Yeah,” he says, smiling a little. “Hey, Al, Lucy says hi.”

Lucy flushes. “I’m guessing he’s how you found out about this whole bus thing in the first place.” This _so_ isn’t the best place to talk to her father. _Later_, she promises herself.

“Oh, hey,” Daniel says loudly from down the aisle. “Looks like the cavalry’s here.”

Ah, sirens. Lucy still gets a jolt whenever she sees police cars, LAPD or not, a soft electric shock of dread and recognition. There’s one car and one truck tucked up next to them now; Lucy recognizes the truck as a bomb squad vehicle. Matt hits the lever and the double doors flip open.

Hot potato they go: dad passing the communicator to Lucy while he talks with the officers outside.

“Hey, Uncle Al,” Lucy says. Up front, dad’s shouting to the officers that there’s a third goddamn bus going up the flyover.

“_Hello, Lucy_,” he says. “_The guys caught up with you?_”

One of the LAPD officers is shouting back that they’re going to send a car to catch up with the third bus, but they’re here for the transfer of the wounded.

“Yeah, they’re getting ready to move the driver,” Lucy says. “God, this is insane.”

“_Hang tight_,” he says. “_Oh. Damn, FBI’s here, I’ve got to—”_

Faintly, Lucy can make out someone saying, _Is that the line to the bus?_ followed by Uncle Al answering something, someone _else_ shouting in the background, and then the clatter of the phone exchanging hands. (Meanwhile, dad’s now instructing Carlos and Daniel to help carry Hawthorne for the transfer.)

“_Is this Bus 2525?_” a new voice asks her.

“This is Lucy McClane,” she says. “Bus 2525 is a physical object and incapable of speech. But if you meant to ask if you’re speaking to someone who’s _on_ Bus 2525, yes, you’re on the right line.”

“_Ma’am, I’m Agent Johnson of the FBI, I have been told that the LAPD have made contact with your bus._”

“You have been told the correct information, Agent Johnson,” Lucy replies. “They’re escorting us now.”

“_Have they instructed anyone aboard your bus to check for the whereabouts of the bomb?_”

“I don’t know, Agent Johnson. Right now we’re getting an injured passenger off the bus.”

“_Ma’am, please stop them, no one’s allowed on or off the buses_.”

“We have been given permission to do this transfer,” Lucy says. Dad’s gesturing at her to stand up, and she obeys without thinking. “You’ll be glad to know that the injured person was successfully removed from the bus, Agent Johnson.”

“FBI?” dad says, once she’s on her feet. She nods, so he grabs the communicator and passes it to Simone, quickly whispering, “Just keep talking, they like that.” Then, unexpectedly, he turns to her. “Okay, Luce, your turn.”

She frowns. “I’m not injured.”

“What’s that?” Dad grabs at her wrist. There’s a surge of rage and embarrassment when her eyes water, and she pushes back harder than she means with her good hand. He says, “You’ve got to get off the bus, Lucy.”

“_No_,” she insists. It isn’t fair. There are ten other passengers on the bus, all of them just as important. This is dad being stupid by making things personal. “I can help.”

“Yes, you can,” dad says, coming close.

Lucy only peripherally sees Beth walk past them to the door, but doesn’t notice. Dad doesn’t see it at all.

Dad pulls Lucy to his shoulder like a father comforting his daughter, but he’s whispering, “The asshole’s tracking us, watching us, maybe listening to us. Get them to find that signal and mess it up.”

Up front, Matt says loud enough for them to hear, “Hey, what are you doing?”

“If she’s not going, I am,” Beth says, one foot out.

Dad turns. “No!”

Lucy’s less than half dad’s age, but she doesn’t have the reflexes he has. One moment he’s standing there with her just as she’s understanding the message she has to take off the bus, and the next he’s throwing himself at Beth.

Just as there’s no getting used to gunshots, there’s no getting used to explosions, even small ones.

Lucy’s ears are ringing, her eyes definitely watering now. Dad’s crouched on the floor among splinters of burnt metal and what remains of the bus’ steps and door, while Beth’s on the floor, pushed away to safety. Lucy opens her mouth, rushing forward to check on him, but he puts a palm out to stop her.

“Get off the damn bus, Lucy,” he says through gritted teeth.

Blinking quickly, Lucy says, “I’m gonna buy you a new shirt.” And then she jumps over the space between bus and truck, into the hands of the LAPD.

 

* * *

 

There are ways to deal with pain, putting it aside where it can be dealt with later. John’s pretty good at prioritizing, but in the thirty years he’s been doing this, he hasn’t figured out if there’s a way to ignore the first hit of _fuck-motherfucking-son-of-a bitch_ that’s the metaphorical knee to the balls of John’s entire physical being.

So yeah, it hurts like a fuck-motherfucking-son-of-a-bitch.

When his hearing comes back, he can hear Matt talking frantically: “Check him, check him, somebody!”

Hands are touching him. They mean well, but John jerks back, skin tender where torn. The construction worker, Carlos, is bending over him. “You okay?”

“Yeah, peachy.” Nothing’s broken, but his left arm feels hot where it’s been singed – likely the skin’s burnt. He pulls himself upright, gingerly tugging soon-to-be-sticky cloth. “Damn, I liked this shirt.”

Carlos’ laugh has strikes that familiar edge of slightly hysterical and reluctantly relieved. John used to laugh like that, before this shit got old. “You’re crazy, man.”

“You know,” John says as he gets to his feet, “I don’t get that as much these days as I used to. Is everyone okay?”

The chorus is present, if not enthusiastic. Beth is crying, but another passenger, Lin, has taken her hand and is talking softly to her. John goes to her side, asking if she’s hurt. Beth shakes her head, barely able to look at him, so he pats her on the shoulder so she knows that it’s all right. That just makes her twist away, so Lin slowly leads her to the back of the bus.

Some of the other passengers are looking at him differently now, some dubious, some more hopeful, but John turns away from them to look out the gaping hole of where the front doors used to be.

“Glad you’re still in one piece, sir,” says Officer Reeves of the LAPD bomb squad from, a young guy with a crew cut whom John vaguely remembers Al describing as one of his boys.

“So am I,” John says.

Behind Reeves, two officers are carefully setting Hawthorne down and checking on his wounds. Lucy’s sitting nearby talking to another officer, during which she catches him watching and her expression goes a little strange before she breaks away. She’s probably still mad at him, but hey, what else is new?

“What happens now?” John asks Reeves.

“We’ve got clearance from the airport,” Reeves replies. “We’re going escort you there, via the new highway so it’ll be clear. All you’ve got to do is pretty much sit back and let us do our job.”

“I’m all for that,” John says, relieved to hand things over to those whose turf this actually belongs to.

A soft touch to his shoulder makes him turn around. “Mister McClane?” Simone holds up the communicator. “The FBI still want to talk to you.”

Bracing himself, he takes the call. “Yeah.”

“_The man responsible, he contacted your bus in person?_”

“What, no ‘hi, how’re you doing?’” John takes a bunch of wet wipes offered by one of the other ladies, nodding a grateful thank you because dry blood can be a bitch.

“_Come on, Detective McClane_.”

Oh, so they know who he is. Peachy. “Yeah, he contacted us over the two-way.”

“_Interesting_,” Agent Johnson says. “_That likely means that he’s personally watching you._”

“Should I be touched?”

“_If he makes contact again, please let us know. In the mean time, take care, and we’ll contact you if we have any new information_.”

“What, that’s it? Hello? Thank you _very much_!” He makes a face at the communicator like it’s at fault for the poor conversation, and then passes it to Simone with a huff. “Call your family, pass it down.” Her face crumbles a little, but she nods gratefully, taking the communicator back to the other passengers to decide who gets to use it first.

John turns away from that, calling out to the front: “Hey, Matt! Bill me, ‘kay?”

He can only see the back of Matt’s head when he softly says, “You threw yourself on a bomb.”

“Couldn't shoot it,” is John’s simple reply.

Matt makes a sound that’s almost a laugh. When John approaches, he realizes that Matt’s shaking. He's still keeping it together, hands firm around the wheel, but the knuckles are pale, and his chest is heaving a little tighter than what's right.

“You okay?” John asks.

“I thought that was it,” Matt says. “When that thing went off, I thought that was it, and I was dead. But then I realized I wasn’t, and I was _so glad_, but then I saw you on the floor, and it was… I don’t know. I don’t know if I’m okay.”

“Do you want off the wheel?”

“No.” There’s no hesitation in his voice. “I can do this, I can drive. It’s the _other _ parts I’m not too good at.”

John glances back at the other passengers anyway, seeing if there’s anyone else who could take the wheel if it came to that. Carlos, probably.

“This is so not how I was planning to spend today,” Matt says.

“You, me and the rest of the damn crew.” When he moves, he can feel tell-tale tightness along his arm, so he tugs off his jacket, wincing when it brushes against tender skin. There’s definitely some burns there, but it’s nothing to worry about. Carlos, who sees what he’s doing, steps forward and hands him an unused kerchief, which John starts wrapping as a makeshift bandage around his arm.

As John does that, he’s looking out the gaping maw where the doors used to be. The bomb squad truck is back, tightening up against their side while Reeves hangs on to the edge, bending low to look under the bus. Most of ‘em are barely older than Lucy, but all geared and padded to the nines; shiny examples of LAPD professionalism. In his line of work, John normally wouldn’t trust anyone that young, but his back’s acting up, he’s _tired_, and he really hates that the gods of LA apparently _do_ have a vendetta against him.

Matt speaks up, forcing John’s attention again. “What I don’t get is what this is all about.”

“It’s about money,” he says. “This is a hostage situation. Easy money.”

“I wouldn’t say easy,” Matt says, snorting a little. “In fact, I’d say it’s pretty damn complicated. If I had all this equipment and wanted to make money out of it, I wouldn’t be going around bugging random buses and hoping that the city pays up.”

“I’m not gonna pretend to understand what goes through their minds, okay,” John says.

“And another thing.” Matt’s quite the chatterbox.

“Yeah?”

“Why did you even chase down this bus in the first place? How did you know?”

“A bus exploded this morning on the beach,” he says. “The guy who did it called in, said that there was another bus rigged up and the city had to be pay a sweet 50 mill to keep all the passengers from blowing sky high. I knew Lucy was going to be on a bus today, and I had to be sure.”

“But you _couldn’t_ have been sure,” Matt says. “The odds are still pretty slim.”

Yet it _still_ keeps happening to him, but John doesn’t say that part out loud. “There one bus following us right now, and _at least_ one more bus out there in the same situation. It’s more than likely if there are other busses out there in the same situation as us, they don’t have a cop on board and have no way to call out and ask for help. They have no way to know that there _is_ help. If it means that I had to be a jackass chasing my daughter down to get those odds, then I’m fine with that.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Matt glances at him quickly, looking hurt.

“It doesn’t matter.” John shrugs. “I’m here. Don’t pretend to be grateful on my account.”

“’Course not,” Matt says. “If we should be grateful to anyone, it would be to Lucy.”

John looks at him sharply. It’s an automatic reaction to whenever anyone male so much as breathes her name within earshot, but even as he does it, it’s like he can _feel_ Lucy rolling her eyes at him from wherever she is at the moment.

“Yeah, Lucy,” John mutters.

“It’s easy to see where she gets those balls of steel from,” Matt says.

“Hey, watch it,” John says. “That’s my little girl you’re talking about.”

“_Little girl_?” Matt gives him a look. “Ah. Okay.”

“Just shut up and drive,” John says, sounding grumpier than he really is.

“Hey, I didn’t mean anything,” Matt says. He’s definitely smiling now, the shape of it completely changing his face. It’s a little startling, especially with the way Matt’s eyes briefly flicker over to him, like there’s something funny going on that John can’t see. “You know, don’t get me wrong, but something tells me you’ve been in shit like this before.”

“Not for a while,” John says, his lower back aching with a reminder of just how long.

Matt still hasn’t stopped smiling. “Yeah, I’m glad you’re here.”

Nothing’s actually changed – the bomb is still in here and the bad guy is still out there – but when Matt says so out loud, it feels like the odds have shifted somewhere. So what if John’s used up something like six of his nine lives; so what if he’s older, stiffer, his fingers aren’t as nimble as they once were, his reflexes are maybe a full second slower than they need to be. They can still make it.

No one’s beaten him up, either. That’s definitely a plus.

“Tell me, Matt, what kind of hardware _ does_ it take to pull off something like this?” John doesn’t look at the CCTV camera directly, but it’s hard to forget that it’s there. It’s harder still not to wonder what the asshole’s thinking as he’s watching this (_if _ he’s watching this, but the possibility is near definite), and whether the only reason he hasn’t blown them up yet is because he’s having a huge laugh at their expense.

“Hacking the Metro wouldn’t be that hard,” Matt says. He shifts, glancing up at John guiltily. “In theory, not that I’ve ever done anything like that or even thought about it. I’ve never thought about hacking any public service system – did I say hacking? I’m not a hacker, I only use computers sometimes, like to pay my bills and… stuff like that.” His grin is too bright.

John rolls his eyes. “The point, if you can find it.”

“Hacking the Metro itself wouldn’t be hard,” Matt starts again. “That can be done from a safe distance. I would say it’s the individual wiring of the buses that would be the most difficult to pull off. They’d have to physically go there – probably to the depot – and open up the buses one by one. It’d take time, at the very least, and I don’t know what kind of security they’d have to get through.”

They’re talking about this, and still the bus hasn’t blown up. Maybe he really isn’t listening in to them, not that they can be sure about it.

“But like I said, it’s an ineffectual way to make money,” Matt says. Then his voice changes, its lightness evaporating. “Why are the LAPD escorting us to a dead end?”

A visual confirmation does imply that that’s a dead end up ahead. Suppressing the heavy sigh he feels in his chest, he walks over to the blown-out door to talk to Reeves. “Hey! Where are you takin’ us?”

Officer Reeves looks. He tries to mask his surprise, but John can tell that he’s only just now noticing where they’re heading. “Take a right! It’s just a sharp turn.”

“That what you call it in this town?”

“Quickest way to the airport. Sorry, McClane, it didn’t look that sharp on the map.” At least Reeves has the decency to look sheepish. “However, I can tell you for sure that the highway’s actually complete, and you will not have to make any jumps.”

“_Hell_ yeah we better not be making any fucking jumps!” John snaps, getting a cheap thrill at the way Reeves’ face twitches in what could pass for a blush. “Now get your ass back there and warn the other bus!”

“Yes, sir!” Reeves almost salutes, even.

Ducking back inside, John claps his hands to get everyone’s attention. “We’re going to make a sharp turn. Everyone on _this_ side of the bus, and hold on.”

“Wait, what?” Matt says. “_That’s_ your advice?”

“Unless you can make a U at 60, I don’t see what choice we have.” John makes a quick round to check the passengers, trying to sound reassuring and checking that everyone’s sitting right and holding on to something firmly. “When we turn, press your weight as hard as you can against the wall.”

He gets to the gun-holder from earlier, who now looks terrified and guilty. “I didn’t know, man, I didn’t know…”

“You and me both,” John says, unlocking the handcuffs. “Press against the wall.”

After another round of checks, John heads back up front to where Matt’s shaking his head anxiously. “We’re going to tip over, we’re going to tip over...”

“Think positive, Matt.” He’s probably weirding the kid out by smiling, but he can’t help it, that’s what he does. “Keep your foot on the gas.”

“Fuck my life.” Matt takes a steadying breath.

It’s quiet while they race towards the end of the road; everyone and the bus watch and wait. Then they hit it, and they’re turning. John’s bending over Matt, grabbing the wheel and pulling with him, fighting the inertia as they _tilt_, tires screeching.

There’s the sweet spot when half the wheels are still in the air, just before the momentum moves back and they’re coming back down. The tires make an ugly noise when they reconnect with the asphalt, but then they get their balance back and someone is whooping – others quick to follow with their own noises of relief and joy.

John permits himself a smile. Another day, another close call, whatcha gonna do?

A touch on his arm makes him look down. Matt’s fingers are curled above the junction of his elbow, the tips cold even through John’s shirt.

Leaving the fingers where they are, John turns back to watch the other bus make the same sharp turn.

They skid a little, tires screeching even louder, but after swerving briefly, the driver gets it back under the control and they’re together again, a happy pair heading to the airport in the same two pieces they started with. _Fucking yeah._ John grins down at Matt. “Good driving, kid.”

Matt nods stiffly. “You know, this is a nice city and all, but I don’t know if I’d want to come back here.”

John laughs. Matt jumps a little at the sound, but then looks up and relaxes a little, answering with a smile of his own even if he doesn’t completely understand the joke. Lucy would probably make a face and tell John he’s being inappropriate, but it’s nice to be able to laugh at _anything_ right now.

Matt’s fingers uncurl, and John pats him on the shoulder before going back and checking on the other passengers.

 

* * *

 

“See, now it’s just getting ridiculous,” Gabriel says. “That was completely unnecessary.”

“That’s LA’s finest for you,” Mai replies.

“Not that one, though.”

One of the screens is not like the others, and that’s the one where a broad black-and-white figure is crowding up the camera’s view, standing at least two feet in front of the do-not-cross yellow line to talk to a floppy-haired driver.

“Detective John McClane,” Gabriel says, letting the name roll of his tongue. “What are the odds, indeed?”

Mai adjusts her headset. “Ten minutes to our next check-in with the LAPD.”

Gabriel pushes his chair a little, letting it roll closer to another set of camera screens that overlook a square in downtown LA. Right now there’s nothing of interest to watch; just pedestrians and the occasional cyclist going past. But after Gabriel makes his call (in nine and a half minutes) to let them know that that’s the supposed ransom drop-off point, it’ll become a matter of waiting until it becomes a game of _Where’s Waldo: LAPD edition_.

It does seem a pity to let Detective McClane go to waste, though.

Gabriel thinks.

 

* * *

 

They make it to the airport without anything more dramatic than Matt breaking a rearview light when he turns too close to a barrier, but that’s more embarrassing than scary.

The airport itself looks the same as it did yesterday; the familiar sight is a relief after the alien streets of LA.

“Okay, we’re gonna take that lane.” McClane points. “When you get to the end, make one big round there, and then up that other lane.”

“Gotcha,” Matt says, glad to not have to worry about traffic anymore. Here it’s just a matter of following the little red flags, and the only others sharing the immediate area are the buses behind them. Matt’s even able to detach enough of his attention from driving to notice the crowd that’s set up at the fences at the far end of the runway, lined with police cars and ambulances, all on standby.

The other passengers in the bus are mostly quiet, only a few making conversation while everyone else waits silently to see what happens next. Just about everyone who wants to have made their call out with the communicator (keeping it short, because, seriously, what do you _say?_) so it’s back in McClane’s jacket, waiting for the call that’ll tell them they’ve gotten to the source, or broken the bus’ signal, or anything else worth exhaling over.

After Matt makes a turn to head down the long straight, the bomb squad truck comes back to parallel them, Officer Reeves once again hanging on the edge of the truck to talk to McClane. “From what we can see, we think that the bomb’s directly linked to the front axel, but we can’t get close enough to look at them without endangering the bus.”

“Right, no one gets on or off,” McClane says.

“Is that a good idea?” Matt asks. He ignores McClane’s annoyed glare, continuing, “What with us being watched and all.”

“I’m not stupid,” McClane grunts. “Ain’t no harm in taking a look, find out what we’re dealing with. It’s not against the rules.”

“Okay,” Matt says, trying not to feel the weighty presence of the CCTV camera above his head. He opens his mouth again to ask how on earth McClane can get a good look at something underneath the bus, but the question is answered before it’s voiced when McClane opens an access panel in the floor.

The road looks disturbing close, looking like it’s rushing much faster than their safe 60 miles per hour.

“Someone hold my legs,” McClane says.

“Still don’t think this is a good idea,” Matt says, trying to split his vision between the runway, the speedometer, and McClane, who’s currently talking to Carlos and Daniel, who are sitting with him near the open hole.

Matt takes quick glances to watch as McClane leans forward, only pausing to make sure that he’s got good support around his legs, before his upper torso disappears down the hole.

After that, Matt can’t watch. He opts to focus on his route but that doesn’t work either, because he keeps picturing McClane’s head kissing asphalt.

“Hey, look,” Ruck says suddenly.

At first Matt thinks that he’s pointing to a plane, which, _woo_, planes in an airport, how novel, except that isn’t what he’s looking at. There’s two other buses coming up from the farther side of the airport, police car escorts around them. They’re of similar make and model as theirs, but the colors are of different lines.

“Matt, watch out!” Simone gasps.

Matt jerks the wheel, seeing the pieces of split rubber a half-second before they hit their tires.

Carlos swears loudly, and down McClane goes. Someone’s shouting, and the bus bounces again over another piece of rubber.

Matt can only focus on the responsibility he didn’t let McClane take away from him, keeping his eyes on the runway, swerving out of the way of other hazards, and feeling angry that the hazards are there in the first place.

“Oh my god, is he okay?” Simone asks frantically.

“Goddamn,” Daniel hisses.

McClane only growls incomprehensibly as he crawls back up the hole by his fingers, and when Matt glances at him, he sees that it’s because McClane has a cellphone in his mouth.

“I’m so sorry,” Matt says. “I didn’t see it, I should’ve, but I just…”

But McClane’s ignoring him, nodding quick thanks to Carlos and Daniel’s for pulling him up, and then leaning out the door to toss the cellphone across to Reeves.

“What was…?” Then Matt realizes that McClane used the cellphone to take pictures of whatever it was that was he’d seen underneath the bus.

“If he doesn’t return it to you, give me a call and I’ll whoop his ass,” McClane tells Simone. “And you can quote me on that.”

“I’m so sorry, McClane,” Matt says quickly, because this is important. “I know, I know, I’m supposed to watch the road but—”

“Can you shut it for a minute?” McClane snaps. “Motherfucker.”

Matt swallows nervously. “What?”

“I lost a shoe.”

He waits, but that seems to be it. When Matt looks over, McClane’s still standing there, scowling at his feet and muttering softly to himself, shaking his head and twisting his lips.

“Uh,” Matt says tentatively, “Did you get the part where I said I’m sorry?”

“You say sorry one more time and I’m gonna bash your face in,” McClane growls angrily. “None of this is your fault. If you wanna blame someone, blame the jackhole that put us in this situation.”

Matt exhales softly. “Jackhole, got it.”

“Hey, McClane!” Reeves shouts from the truck. “We’ve got to head back, but you guys hang tight, okay?”

McClane waves a hand at him, more dismissively than supportive, before lumbering forward and resting his fists on the dashboard. His head lolls forward, eyes shut, as he continues muttering to himself. Matt can make out a few words here and there, but they make no sense, something about airports and holly and fuckheads with bad timing.

“You okay?” Matt asks.

McClane takes a deep breath and straightens up, twisting a shoulder with an audible crack. “And if I said no?”

“I’d high-five you,” Matt says.

McClane gives him a look. On the surface, it’s irritation, but Matt’s getting the hang of recognizing the start of his smirk. McClane looks away before it completely breaks out, though.

It’s a nice moment, so naturally, this is when one of the other buses slams into them.

“Jesus!” Matt shrieks, automatically turning the bus away to safety. He can’t do it fast enough so McClane’s hands join his, pulling at the steering wheel, but the other bus nudges their side again, causing them to slide a little sideways.

“Keep your foot down,” McClane hisses.

“I _know_!”

Their wheels screech a little as they pull away from the other bus. Matt glances in the rearview mirror – a few of their windows are cracked, and most of the passengers are on their feet.

“What in the everloving hell?” McClane grumbles. “You keep your eyes on the road!”

“I am!”

McClane’s got the communicator back out, probably to call for help, but they should have seen it from the sidelines, surely someone’s already on the way.

Matt makes the turn at the end of the lane, and with the angle changed, he can see the other bus now. The people are standing, some of them gesturing wildly, and – oh _fuck_ – it looks like someone’s trying to take the wheel.

“What are they doing?” Ruck asks.

“I think it’s called panicking,” Matt says.

The bomb squad truck is racing towards them, but the other bus is swerving dangerously now. It looks like a full-blown panic party in there, people standing and shouting. Matt can only watch, some quiet part of his brain registering that that could have been _them_, lost to the fear of the moment.

“Please calm down,” Carlos whispers, horrified.

“These are normal people!” McClane yells into the communicator. “You can’t expect them to act like machines! You don’t give them any information, what’s to stop them from thinking the worst, you haven’t actually—”

“McClane, they’re cutting across,” Matt shouts. “McClane, they’re _cutting across_!”

“Get off the line,” McClane orders.

It’s easier said than done, but Matt tries. He can’t turn too sharply, not without endangering them again, but he breaks through the line of flags, hoping that their curve will take them out of the way of the other bus. But more than that, it suddenly hits Matt that the other bus is _slowing down_.

“McClane…”

“Harder, turn harder!”

The explosion isn’t as loud as Matt would’ve expected.

Or maybe it only seems so because there’s just so much _heat_, plus the fact that he’s momentarily blinded by the first flash of light that burns bright through his closed eyelids. Even so, his foot is firm on the pedal and his hands steady through the wheel, and when his eyes are open their bus has passed through the tail end of the fiery corona out the other end.

There are people screaming. Matt can hear them, but it all seems to be coming from a distance, like through a wall of water.

McClane mutters something, the syllables muddled and barely audible.

Matt’s stomach jumps. “Oh no, I’m deaf.”

“What?” McClane says.

Matt gasps. “You’re deaf, too!”

“You’re not deaf, Matt,” McClane says wryly, his voice coming from somewhere above Matt’s head.

Right then it hits Matt what’s just happened. “Oh my god.” He glances in the mirror, seeing fire and broken metal all over the tarmac.

“Yeah,” McClane says. He’s gone to the side, standing near where their door used to be. No longer muttering to himself, he’s just looking out, the hard line of his back betraying a different sort of anger, coming from a place that’s the opposite of weary and tired.

The silence in the bus is different, too. There’s a heavy blanket of guilt at their relief that it wasn’t _ them_. Matt will deal with that later, if he gets out of this.

“Hey, McClane,” Matt says, once he thinks a safe amount of time has passed.

He grunts.

“What’s that part about it being that jackhole’s fault, again?” Matt says.

When he glances over, he sees the look in McClane’s eyes and thinks that the fuckhead had better not let McClane get a whiff of his trail.

 

* * *

 

“Nice,” Gabriel says. There’s no one to hear him, but he wants to say it out loud anyway.

 

* * *

 

Lucy shades her eyes from the glare, feeling her heart stutter with pained relief when she realizes that it’s one of the other buses that exploded, not dad’s. It’s still a horrible moment, the bile rising in her throat when nausea overtakes the relief. She has to lower her gaze as she steadies her breath.

Around her the uniforms are frozen, up until they explode with renewed activity, shouting louder than before.

“What the hell happened?” Captain Morton’s face is a terrible sight. “Somebody get Reeves!”

“Here, sir,” another officer says, passing him a walkie-talkie.

Lucy’s a third wheel here. She doesn’t consider herself a gawker (man, she hates gawkers), but at the moment that appears to be all she can do, which sucks.

Still, she’s grateful to be here at all, since they’ve kept the place clear of outsiders and actual gawkers, though a number of them have gathered beyond the fence, trying to get a glimpse of the action. As for Lucy, Uncle Al must have pulled some strings somewhere, because none of the LAPD officers have asked her to leave so far.

The FBI, though, is another matter. Agent Bowman, newly arrived in his shiny black van, turns on her the moment he sees her. “Who is this? What is she doing here? Does she have clearance?”

“I’m one of the passengers of Bus 2525,” she says, helpfully pointing at where the Red Line bus is still circling the runway. “I was able to get down because of my injury.” Her left arm’s bandaged from wrist almost to elbow, but she lifts it up anyway in case he can’t see it through those huge sunglasses of his.

Agent Bowman’s face doesn’t change. “So you’re the one who asked whether it’d be possible to hack the Metro.”

It’s a pity she can’t see his eyes. Lucy’s pretty good at staring people down and getting them flustered. “Considering the bad guy already has, I figured we might as well level the playing field.”

“You’re assuming,” Bowman says.

Morton cuts in: “How else would he be able watch all the buses at the same time, even if he had satellite access? This guy thrives on control, just like he did for the elevator case. He’s been watching us from square one, and he keeps all the pieces visible at all times.”

“There’s no proof yet it’s the same party involved,” Agent Bowman points out. “You better remember that before you go around telling people.” Turning around, he walks back to the FBI van, gesturing something that looks a lot like the universal sign for _hurry the fuck up._

Morton watches Bowman’s back, saying, “It’s a matter of National Security now. If that guy could hack the Metro, who knows what else he’s gotten his fingers in.”

“It’s usually about money,” Lucy says. “Unless it’s about something personal.”

“Sometimes it’s both,” Morton adds.

Lucy looks back out on the runway, where the remains of the other bus are still smoking. The sight makes her feel small and angry. It’s a horrible feeling to have, and Lucy McClane will change the world if that’s what it takes for her to never feel like that again.

But right now, she’s going to watch dad’s bus like a hawk, willing it not to piss her off and ruin her day further.

Behind her, Agent Bowman steps out of his truck. “Captain Morton, get your bomb squad ready. We’ve just gained access to the Metro and are ready to slide in a false transmission.”

“How will we know if it works?” Morton asks.

Lucy knows the answer to that one.

 

* * *

 

Compartmentalizing; John’s good at that. He has to focus on _this _ bus with _this_ set of passengers, and get every single one of them off unharmed. He can’t worry about the other buses – he has to let the LAPD do that.

There are a total of five of them now, after the loss of that one and the arrival of two more (Jesus, that’s a _lot _of crazy to be circling the streets of LA together), so they’re looping the runway together like chickens for the slaughter, waiting for permission to explode into pieces.

“I never thought I’d be missing my shitty-ass apartment in Jersey,” Matt’s saying. He’s doing a hell of a job not looking scared. A couple of hours earlier, John wouldn’t have put money on this kid holding it together through everything that’s happened so far, but it’s nice to be proven wrong in this case.

“Hmm,” John says helpfully.

“I should be charging the cockroaches rent. But when they say there’s no place like home, that’s not what that mean. They don’t mean a place that you’d rather be – not when you’d just rather be _anywhere but here_.”

It’s easy to see that this is Matt’s mechanism: he rambles like he can talk the world into making sense.

Kid hasn’t used the communicator to call anyone. He hasn’t mentioned any loved ones he wants to see, either. That’s just plain shitty. John’s an old fart on his last round of the track, so he’s _entitled_ to the lonely loser gig, but he still has Lucy and Jack (if they’re talking to him when this is over). John may not know much about Matt, but it’s obvious that he’s a good guy.

“What’re _you_ gonna do?” Matt asks.

“About what?”

“When this is _over_.” Matt rolls his eyes. Apparently John had zoned out somewhere.

“Oh. Have dinner with my daughter.” After a moment, he adds, “And try not to embarrass her.”

“Good luck on that one.”

John looks at him sharply, but Matt’s only grinning. John doesn’t know what to think about that, so he hits the kid between the shoulder blades.

“Ow.” Matt gives him a dirty look, but his mouth is still twitching upward, like hell John knows why.

The buzzing of the communicator is a welcome distraction. He picks up. “McClane.”

“_Morton here._”

“Good news or no news.”

“_There’s a new development_,” Captain Morton says. “_FBI says they’ve hacked the signal coming from the bus. You should be in the clear._”

That explains the airport connector buses that are rolling up now alongside the bomb squad truck.

“So we’re getting off?” John asks.

“_Feel free_,” Morton says. “_No rush_.”

“What about civilian cameras?” He squints through the sunlight to where their audience has gathered at the fences. “The moment he thinks something up…”

“_We’re on it_,” Morton confirms. “_Reeves will give you the all clear_.”

Officer Reeves is currently standing on the back of the truck, talking into a walkie-talkie. He sees John looking and nods, palm out in a waiting gesture.

“Okay, see you on the other side, Captain.” He hangs up. “Everybody, wake up!”

“Are we really getting off?” Ruck asks. “Really seriously?”

“You can stay here if you want,” John says. “Matt, open the side door.”

There’s some fumbling, and then Carlos helpfully pointing out the lever that Matt has to pull. It works, the side doors sliding open. John stands there facing open space, hands braced on the upper frame of the door as he watched the truck loop around with them.

Then, finally, Officer Reeves starts frantically making circles with his fist, and one of the connector buses comes parallel to them, close enough for someone to step from one to the other.

So John does, after which there is an emphatic _lack_ of explosion.

“All right!” David cheers, pumping his fist.

They move quickly after that, John and the other LAPD officers setting a plank down to connect the Metro bus with their airport bus, the makeshift walkway enabling the passengers to cross between the two to safety. John just barely registers the other airport buses twinning with their own individual charges.

Even as the passengers are stepping over one by one, John grabs some tools of the trade from another LAPD officer, then jumps back on to the Metro bus. Carlos clasps his shoulder briefly as he passes, but John can’t quite share that relief just yet.

“C’mon, Matt, we’re getting off this ride.” He twists reinforced rope through the steering wheel.

Matt moves his hands out of the way to let John do his job. “Ran out of tokens?”

“Yeah, now they’re kickin’ us out.” He pushes the metal bar on to the pedal just as Matt slides off the seat, and then aims the bus towards a clear area ahead of them away from their looping course, knotting the rope to keep the steering wheel in place. The rope and bar won’t last very long, but hopefully just long enough.

They quickly walk down to the side door where John makes Matt step out to the waiting connector bus, but with no one at the steering wheel, there’s no one to avoid the split rubber on the runway. When the bus bounces, Matt slips, foot flying over where the makeshift plank bridge was but now isn’t, and so John grabs him, pulling him back.

“Stay here,” John says, and then he’s running back to the front to steady the steering wheel.

“The speed’s dropping.” Matt’s reaching past John, leaning down to adjust the metal bar pressing against the pedal.

“Didn’t I tell you to _stay there_?” John snarls.

“But—”

“Get off the bus!” John shoves at his shoulder, and Matt stumbles back, eyes wide. John has to turn back to the wheel, grabbing it before it goes loose.

“Watch out!” Matt screams near his shoulder, but it’s unnecessary because John sees clear as day the other bus heading towards them, emptied of passengers and flying blind.

“God damn,” John growls as he pulls the rope loose to take full control of the steering wheel. “Connector still there?”

“They’ve fallen back a little.” Matt’s fingers are clutching at his shoulder, frantic where his voice isn’t.

“Hold on to something.”

He makes a hard turn. The wheels screech, the more so because his foot’s pressed firmly on the gas. They won’t be able to clear the other bus entirely, but John’s hoping that it won’t be anything worse than a nudge.

Then the other bus _explodes_.

John ducks automatically, the sudden push of heat far more intense than the one earlier. It’s enough to make him briefly lose his grip on the wheel, and the other bus rams right into them, punching into their side like an angry fist. Their bus skids and shudders, but they’re still moving – though that’s a blessing that won’t last very long.

There’s no talking over the scream of metal on metal, so John slides off the seat and reaches down to where the loose access panel’s slid across the floor. He hefts that up, quickly testing its weight with one hand; with the other hand he reaches down for Matt, ignoring the way he blinks rapidly in surprised protest, and tucks him firmly against his chest.

“Buh—” Matt manages to say, just before John jumps.

The shock of landing makes John’s teeth clatter painfully, but the panel does its job, skidding across asphalt with a raw angry screech that vibrates right through them, loud enough that it almost blocks out everything else, including the explosion that they’ve just missed.

It’s a crude shield, the only thing keeping skin from meeting tarmac, and it only lasts long enough for them to hit a set of flag dividers, and then John has to let go of the panel, both his arms tightening around Matt as they tip over and start rolling.

John braces himself for anything – wheels, rubber, barriers, whatever – but all he gets is the sharp burn of rough heat against skin (tolerable but _ow_) until he manages to twist to a stop.

A quick breath, and then he’s dragging Matt up with him as he gets to his feet. “C’mon!”

“What—” Matt’s more than a little wild-eyed.

“We’re not out of this yet.”

They start a tumbling run towards the fence, John’s hand around Matt’s upper arm to pull and stall as he navigates the flaming obstacle course of burning metal that’s rolling wildly across the tarmac. Forward, right, left, back, duck, _run_ – John’s determined that they not exhale until they’re in the clear.

After a final close call with a tire, there’s just empty space ahead, but John keeps pressing until they reach another set of flag dividers. Once there, he pauses to look back, and Matt takes that as permission to sink to his knees, gasping for breath.

It’s quite a sight back there, fire dancing horizontal around the lone still-intact bus.

No, wait, there it goes.

After few seconds of shut-eye through the last raging burst of heat and metal, John exhales and looks down. “You okay?”

Matt’s sitting on the ground, legs splayed out in front of him. “Yeah,” he croaks. He clears his throat before speaking again. “My asthma’s acting up, but yeah.”

Crouching down, John touches Matt’s shoulder and turns him a little. “Don’t look scratched up, but you’ll probably get a couple of really cool bruises over the next few days. Feeling sharp pain anywhere?”

“You… but…” Matt looks at him, shaking his head in disbelief. “How can you _even_?”

He shrugs; it hurts like a sonofabitch, but he doesn’t feel like letting it show. “All in a day’s work, kid.”

Matt gives him one last incredulous look before he leans back, eyes wide as they gaze up to the sky. “Oh my god, we’re alive. Jesus fucking Christ.” He’s shaking, but John quickly realizes that it’s with laughter.

John laughs with him.

This is its own kind of release; mind and body exhaling in tandem. It’s that last heady rush before the ground returns beneath their feet, and before John realizes it he’s got a hand on Matt’s shoulder, fingers digging in to wiry muscle.

Matt’s laughter slows to hiccupping giggles. “You’ve got…” A finger approaches John’s chin.

He pulls back sharply, reaching a hand up to where he can feel tell-tale stickiness. He wipes the red away with the back of his sleeve, though that probably gets more dirt back _ on_ his face than anything else.

“Get up.” John stands, offering Matt a hand and helping him to his feet. “You need to get checked out.”

“_Me_ checked out?” Matt looks at him incredulously. “Have you seen yourself lately?”

“Sexy, right?”

“No,” Matt says quickly.

“And I’m still not going anywhere unless I have two shoes on my feet. One on each foot.”

Matt looks down to where John’s abused sock (a toe peeking out) rests on the concrete next to his remaining sensible Clarks. “They’re just shoes.”

“A man is nothing without his shoes.” He points to the peanut gallery, now frantic with activity as they bring the bus survivors in. “See that? Just head in that direction, see if anyone has any spare size tens.”

“You’re serious.”

“Failing that, boots. There are always a couple of spare boots lying around. Ask Reeves, he should have some in that truck of his.”

“Okay, but only because I owe you.” Matt smiles just before he runs off.

The air’s still heavy with the stench of metal and C4, eau de la terrorist shitface, and even someone like John needs a moment to get his breath back. When he looks up, he sees the shrinking figure of Matt reaching and disappearing into the mass of bodies.

Right then it occurs to John that Lucy’s probably there as well, mentally screaming at him to get his sorry ass over there ASAP.

He sighs.

The adrenaline’s slowly wearing off as he walks. He takes his own sweet time because one: a sock isn’t any sort of protection against the hot asphalt, and two: he’s not convinced that it isn’t a bad omen to have an incomplete set of footwear.

He makes it about halfway there when a uniform finally comes out to meet him. Not LAPD, but better than nothing.

“You got spare shoes anywhere?” John asks.

The FBI agent looks confused, but does take a moment to think about it. “I think we have some safety boots lying around. What size are you?”

“Ten,” John says, sighing with relief.

“Come this way, sir,” she says, leading him to one of the many black vans parked near the fence. “Detective McClane, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” John says, just before she hits the back of his head.

It doesn’t completely take. John manages to half-turn, a hand reaching to his belt for his piece, but she moves almost inhumanly fast, kicking it away and getting an elbow to the exact same spot at the top of his neck.

_Great_, he thinks as he passes out.

 

* * *

 

Lucy hates crowds.

There should _not _ be this many people on-site, not even when six buses have exploded on the runway and the surviving passengers now outnumber the police and FBI combined.

The outsiders – people searching for their loved ones, reporters out for an exclusive, gawkers wanting to take a photo – are making things difficult. Captain Morton didn’t have much choice; the LAPD _had_ to wrangle the onlookers to make sure that it doesn’t get out that the buses have been emptied. The result is that the place is a goddamn circus now, that’s what it is. Lucy’s half-surprised that Agent Bowman isn’t running around screaming at people, but she’s not going to wonder about that when she’s busy trying to find her father.

It _should _ be easy to find him, because it’s not like dad disappears easily. Chances are he’s with one of the paramedics, where he’d be playing the annoying jackass at as loud a volume as possible. If not that, he’d be trying to find _her_, because he knows that she’d only stand the minimum safe distance away from where the action’s happening.

Only thing is, he isn’t at any of the paramedic stations, and he’s usually faster at finding her than the other way round. He’d once said something about her hair giving her away, and that was before he’d shaved his head, which is why she couldn’t throw it back in his face at the time.

However, Lucy does find Simone and Daniel, hugging both when she reaches them. Neither know where her father is, only that he’d not gotten on the connector bus with them. They’re quickly shuffled off by an officer who wants to take their statement, so Lucy starts moving again, turning around in what feels like the umpteenth circle.

A familiar face has her running. “Hey, Bus Driver!”

He looks up as she approaches, recognition clearing his face into relief. “Hey. Nice to see they got you fixed up.”

“Yeah,” Lucy says. “I’m glad you got off okay. It’s Matt, right?”

“Lucy.” Matt nods, smiling a little awkwardly. “You’re probably looking for your father?”

“I can’t find him anywhere,” she sighs.

“He’s back that way.” Matt points over his shoulder. “He lost a shoe, told me to find him a spare.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“I wish I were.” He lifts up a pair of rubber boots. “What do you think?”

“I think that he better not be an ungrateful bastard about it,” Lucy says. Matt’s face goes funny, so she adds, “Only _I’m_ allowed to talk about him like that. It’s complicated.”

“I believe you,” Matt says.

The warmth of his good-natured grin is so unexpected that Lucy double-takes. She knows what her relationship with her father looks like; she’s been talked at by enough teachers and pointed at by enough stupid schoolmates. But Matt’s looking at her right now like he thinks it’s hilarious.

The only explanation Lucy can thank of is that dad must’ve said something, only she can’t imagine what it could possibly be for it to get someone who’s almost a complete stranger to get practically googly-eyed at the subject.

“Yeah, the boots look fine. It’s very nice of you to look for them, I think anyone would have just run off and forgotten about it.”

“Oh,” Matt says, surprised. “I didn’t think of that.”

“Yeah.” Lucy smiles. This guy may be all right. “Let’s go find him.”

They squeeze through the crowd until they reach the edge, only concrete, tarmac, dust and the occasional police officer in the space stretched out before them as far the fence goes to the edge of the airport building. Matt pauses.

“He was right there.”

Lucy shields her eyes, trying to see. “Where?”

“Right there.” Matt points. Something occurs to him. “Hey, he still has my communicator. You got a phone?”

She passes it to him wordlessly, watching as his own number and waits.

Why does it always have to come down to traumatic experiences putting things in perspective? Lucy has spent so long believing that she’s nothing like her father, and that his mistakes won’t be hers, but she’s doing exactly that. She can be different. _They_ can be different and goddamn it, Lucy’s old enough to not be a child about it anymore.

“Hey, McClane,” Matt says. “Uh, McClane?” His face pales, and he gestures for Lucy to come close to listen.

“…_I don’t think this goes with my eyes._” It’s dad’s voice, a little muffled. “_Hey, lady? You’re not one for small talk, are you?_”

There’s the sound of movement, and then something that sounds very much like a punch. Matt winces, and there’s the faint sound of dad coughing.

“_C’mon_,” he says. “_Not even a hint where we’re going? Oh, you can’t be serious. Duct tape? What is this, the Dark Ages?_”

Dad goes silent after that, but there’s still the noise of movement, clothes rustling, and the faint whine of an engine in the background.

“We can use this,” Matt says quickly. “My communicator has a GPS tracker, we can find it, I just need a laptop or blackberry – oh, your phone has 3G, this is good, just give a moment…”

Lucy looks around. They need a car, but to steal one from ground zero, with police and Feds nearby, doesn’t seem a good idea. She turns back and starts running, looking for another face that will help. “Captain Morton!”

Morton is in the middle of talking with Officer Reeves, the bomb squad guy who’d helped her off the bus, but he looks up as she approaches. “Yes?”

“My father’s been taken by someone,” Lucy tells them. “I think they’re involved in this fiasco.”

Matt’s still fiddling with the phone, thumbs flying fast. “I’m getting his position.”

Morton frowns, skeptical. “Taken? Why would they come all the way here just to nab him?”

“I don’t know,” Lucy admits.

“They’re heading south,” Matt says, showing them the screen. “There.”

“The source signal the Feds got from the Metro is north-east,” Reeves says softly to Morton.

“Unless that guy’s still fucking with you,” Lucy says. “Captain Morton, please. I wouldn’t joke about something like this.”

“I know you wouldn’t,” Morton says, eyes flicking to where Agent Bowman is pointing at people and handing out orders. “And I know McClane. But we have a source lock of our own, we can’t afford to chase down a single…” He trails off, brain apparently having caught up with his mouth. “Reeves, go with them.”

Reeves straightens up, face suspiciously blank. “Is that an order, sir?

“Don’t get smart with me,” Morton snaps. “Get the hell out of here before Bowman sees what you’re up to.”

Reeves darts off, only looking back once to make sure Lucy and Matt are right behind him.

He heads for one of the parked police cars, sliding into the driver’s seat. Lucy takes shotgun while Matt sits in the back, reading out street names from the phone as they reverse out. There are other cars leaving the airport around them, but they’re on a completely different manhunt, so their car peels away from the crowd at the first intersection.

“You’re going to get into trouble,” Lucy says. “Not that I don’t appreciate it.”

“I’ll survive,” Reeves says with the ease of someone who’s either really stupid or really confident in their superior’s judgment calls. “You might not know this, but all probies on this side get our teeth broken on Nakatomi siege simulations. Your father’s pretty much a legend around here. Not that we’d say that to his face, so don’t quote me.”

“Nakatomi?” Matt says.

“Long story,” Lucy says. She shakes her head, feeling that same bubbling of helplessness as their car roars in hot pursuit of a symbol on a tiny cellphone screen. “If you ask me, he’s too old for this shit.”

 

* * *

 

When the van doors open and a hand reaches in to drag John out, he registers his surroundings and thinks that there’s a _Plane, Trains and Automobiles_ joke in here somewhere, but he can’t quite put his finger on it.

He keeps thinking about that, and not about how much his pride’s getting a beating because he’s being dragged around by a little lady he should’ve been able to snap in half if the world weren’t busy being topsy turvy. There’s another good story in there, one that Holly would be happy to use to tease him with, if she weren’t, you know, _divorced from him_ and _living her own life _with Tim whatsisface. It’s a bummer, since John’s almost got the punchline for _that_ one figured out.

There’s a guy walking towards them. He looks all dressed up and nowhere to go, but the agitation in his face is not what John had expected from the asshole on the radio.

“What is this, Mai?” The French accent is interesting, as well as a confirmation that this is a different asshole entirely. John guesses from the fancy duds that he’s had military training, and wouldn’t be surprised if he’s a mercenary.

“Just a side order,” Mai says. “Help me bring him in.”

There’s more dragging, and John finds himself being brought into a train car that belongs to Mary fucking Poppins, because it’s all shitty and decrepit on the outside, but filled to the brim with electronics that would make Bill Gates piss his pants, not that John knows what any of them actually do.

Standing in the center of this little hive of monitors, CPUs and wires is a tall man with neat hair and a pressed grey shirt like the kind John’s mom used to ask him to wear all the time. This man’s eyes are like a snake’s, and even before he opens his mouth, John knows who he is.

“Detective John McClane,” he says. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person.”

French mercenary guy snaps the tape from John’s mouth. He smacks his lips to get some feeling back, but when he tries to speak, he gets a punch in the face. “Okay, now that’s not nice,” he says, coughing.

The punch came from French mercenary, though. Grey shirt looks like the kind of guy who prefers to give orders than get his own hands dirty. He’s eyeing John now, but when Mai walks over to him, he turns to her for a low whispered conversation.

Under John’s knees, there’s a heavy clanking sound that reverberates along the floor. A low hiss later, the train starts to move.

John takes the opportunity to study his surroundings, evaluating possible exits (two and a half, since he’s not sure if that ceiling hatch can open up), weapons (just about everything) and the likelihood of an ass-kicking if he tries anything (extremely high).

Mai’s taken the single piece he’d brought with him, but she’d missed the communicator, which is in a low pocket of his pants but right now completely useless. The handcuffs around his wrists and the vest Mai’d put on him are mild annoyances, but more importantly he has to consider the very serious fact that he still only has one shoe on.

“I see you’re evaluating your surroundings,” grey shirt says. John turns back to look at him, realizing that he now has the guy’s full attention. French mercenary’s gone somewhere, and Mai’s definitely not paying attention to them as she studies one of the two hundred dozen screens in the car. “But I’d like to draw your attention to the vest you’re now wearing.”

“Not my style,” John says. “Bit too tight on the shoulders.”

“It’s my own design.” He starts, something apparently occurring to him. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t introduce myself. I’m Thomas Gabriel, though I’m sure that name doesn’t mean anything to you.”

“Oh, it means something, all right.” Among other things, telling him his full name means that John’s not being long of this world is in the whackjob’s immediate plans.

Gabriel ignores that, reaching over to pick up something looks suspiciously like a detonator from the table. He turns a key in it, lighting up a series of little red buttons. “Do you know what this is?”

“You’re not going to use it,” John says. “You won’t blow me up while you’re still in the car with me.”

Gabriel smiles. “This is actually the third prototype vest I’ve made so far. The first two made an interesting mess of things, but I’m getting better at localizing the damage. It doesn’t detonate _all_ the explosives at once, you see. There’s three levels to it: outer, inner, circumference. I wasn’t going to use it today, but since you’re here, we might as well give it a try.”

John looks down at the vest, realization like a twist in his stomach. “This is for another hostage plan.”

Gabriel looks pleased. “Yes, it is. The detonator isn’t actually the point, you see. The main purpose of the vest is to test out the sensors. I’d used something similar with the buses, but this one is about proximity, rather than speed.” He probably has rules for this one, too. Some shit about how when the vest is armed, the wearer cannot run, or cannot _stop _ running, or has to do something stupid just so they can keep themselves alive.

Gabriel reaches out to one of the many laptops, pressing a few buttons that make a little beeping sound go off somewhere along John’s back. “There we go. Now there’s no getting off this car for you.”

“Peachy,” John says. He experimentally pushes his arms, feeling the tightness of the vest and the sharp press of the plastic handcuffs against his wrists.

“Now I’m sure you’re wondering why you’re here.” Gabriel shifts the detonator in his hand. “Besides helping me out with my prototype, I mean. You see, Detective McClane, when you’re in my line of work, you have to do your homework. Very thorough, very extensive homework. What’s the point, one would ask, of trying to cause complete chaos to a major American city if one does not familiarize oneself with those who have done it before? That is the very essence of history.”

Gabriel’s insane, John realizes. It’s not that much of a surprise, since these fuckers usually are, but what John’s also reading off this guy is _pride_. John knows the difference between people who are in it for the money, and those who are in it because it _means_ something to them.

“So imagine my surprise when I looked you up,” Gabriel’s saying, “And I found that you are the exact same man who thwarted _both_ Gruber heists, as well as the _only_ airport takeover on American soil in recent memory.”

It sounds almost heroic, the way he lines up those events so neatly. “They your idols, or something?”

“In a way,” Gabriel says, considering. “They are indeed my professional peers, but they were ill-prepared and underestimated the ability of the common man to fight back. Of course, I also have the home advantage that they did not. You see, Detective, it’s not about the money.”

“It’s _always_ about the money,” John corrects him.

Gabriel dips his head a little, smiling. “You’re right, of course, it’s always about the money. Mai?”

She leans back in her seat. “Hmm?”

“How’s the delivery site?”

Mai looks at one of the monitors. “Overrun with LAPD. Drop-off in eight minutes.”

“Shouldn’t you be out there to pick it up your hard-earned ransom?” John asks.

“Of course not.” Gabriel settles into another chair, fingers brushing over the detonator almost lovingly. “The city’s money’s tainted. There use all sorts of markers these days. I’m not going to touch the stuff.”

“Then why…” John shakes his head quickly. “No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

“You _don’t_ want to know?”

“It’s not my problem.”

Gabriel’s eyebrows climb upwards. “Not your problem? I would’ve thought that someone running around blowing things up would be the very _definition_ of your problem. Especially since that one bus blew up right in your face.”

John stills.

Gabriel’s still smiling, but it’s hard-edged, like he’d spent too long practicing imitating photographs. “I bet you people thought you were being real clever, hacking my signal like that and looping the CCTV footage. As if I wouldn’t have other systems in place to keep tabs on what’s happening.”

There’s some other profit to be had in this, John knows that for sure. There’s too much investment involved: money, planning, equipment, the sheer complication of it. John doesn’t like it when things are complicated – it makes it hard to decide where to throw his punches. Gabriel seems to realize that, sitting as placidly as he is, eyes steady and contemplative.

“I wasn’t even supposed to be there on that stupid bus,” John says.

“Yes, so imagine my good luck.” He looks outright pleased now. “Call it selfish, but I wanted to meet you in person. I’m a patriot, Detective McClane, and it’s not every day that I get to meet an actual part of American history.”

That sounds about right. John does feel like he belongs in a history book: creaking bones, bad knees and grey hair when he forgets to shave for a couple of weeks.

Well, except for the part where he can still kick some serious ass, given the opportunity.

Gabriel’s going to find that one out first hand.

 

* * *

 

Matt’s client is probably long gone by now, taking with him a potentially good sale. Matt’s laptop, passport and wallet were all on a bus, which, incidentally, just recently blew up on the LAX tarmac. All of these facts tally up to the conclusion that this is the _opposite_ of a good day, but silver linings are where you find them, and Matt’s seeing a hell of a lot more of the city than he’d initially planned.

He had no idea that the LA port was so _huge_.

“LAPD!” Reeves flashes his badge as he runs in the lead. Lucy’s keeping up with him easily, barking out directions from the cell in her hand. Matt’s lagging a little behind, but he doesn’t regret turning down the offer to wait in the car.

“That one.” Lucy points to a cargo train.

Reeves waves at her to stay behind him, gun out and ready. As the LAPD officer approaches the car and Matt catches a breath, it just occurs to him that this is _insane_. He’s just joined a chase that he has absolutely no right, no preparation, no logical reason to, except that he can’t imagine _not_ doing it.

When the wheels stir with a hiss, Matt grabs Lucy’s elbow. “The train’s getting ready to go.”

“Shit, you’re right.” She looks at the phone, thumb flying as she texts something to someone, which has to be important if she’s doing it now, but the train is _leaving_. Reeves is already on the backmost car, but he’s going to be the only one if they don’t do something quick.

Matt’s legs are moving, propelling him forward, and he jumps on to the back of the car as it starts to move.

Reeves hisses at him, “What the hell are you _doing_?”

“I don’t know!”

Reeves reaches out a hand and helps Lucy jump on board, though judging from the look on his face, he doesn’t think that’s a good idea either. “I’m gonna regret this,” he mutters, reaching down to his ankle to pull out a smaller Glock. “Either of you know how to use this?”

Matt’s mouth opens, but Lucy’s already reaching out and taking it, glaring his way like she’s daring him to protest.

Hey, knowing Lucy, she’d be a better shot than him even if _both_ her wrists were busted.

“Stay _behind_ me, okay?” Reeves says. “If you can help it? Much appreciated.”

He pulls the car door, revealing a darkened interior that smells musty and unused, though that could mean anything. They enter: Reeves first, Lucy after counting to twenty, and Matt after taking a moment to reiterate in his head how _stupid _ this is.

The car does turn out to be empty save a few metal boxes arranged neatly against the wall. Reeves peers into one of them, making a “huh” sound when he does. Matt takes a look as well, learning that “huh” is apparently LAPD-speak for a fucking lot of hardware. A cursory glance is enough to know that there’s enough shit in there to pull off what just went down with the buses and then some.

A heavy sound makes Matt freeze. Reeves signals at them to stay hidden, so Matt joins Lucy in ducking behind the boxes. He peers just around the corner to watch Reeves walk cautiously to the other end of the car.

“You don’t have to be here,” Lucy whispers to him. She looks worried, and even a little sorry. “My father, he wouldn’t want you to put yourself in danger.”

“I know,” Matt whispers back. “But he’d say the same for you.”

“Yeah, but that’s different, he’s my father. He does what he does because that’s _him_, he’s _ that guy. _You don’t owe him anything for that.”

Surprisingly, Matt gets that.

But he tries to imagine knowing what’s happening but not being here, and he can’t. He has to be _here_, right _now_, doing whatever little he can to help. He doesn’t owe McClane anything the way that Lucy means, but he _needs_ to do this, even if he can’t put words to it in his own head where his brain’s having a difficult time trying to process _anything_ through the bright sharpness that comes with this adrenaline rush.

There’s a sudden shout, followed by the sounds of rough scuffling. No gunshots, though, so Lucy takes this as an okay to peer above the boxes.

“One guy,” Lucy murmurs softly. “Reeves is… Okay, I think we should help him.”

Matt peeks. “You go for the head, I’ll take the tail?”

“This may surprise you,” Lucy says, eyes on the scuffle going on at the other end of the car, “But I don’t actually do this a lot. I’ve had a couple self-defense classes, the occasional kickboxing to keep in shape, but I don’t make it a habit to run into a fight where there are _trained professionals_ kicking the crap out of each other.”

“Really? Could’ve fooled me,” Matt says, and she actually looks at him to make sure he’s not being sarcastic.

“You’ve driven a bus that’s wired to explode,” Lucy points out.

“Your father was there.”

“What, my father’s your personal cheerleader? Oh,_ damn_!” Lucy darts up briefly, making a shot to distract the other guy and pass the upper hand back to Reeves. When she comes back down, she flicks her good hand a little, wincing.

“Lucy, Matt!” Reeves calls.

They get up and approach, watching Reeves press the mercenary to the floor and twist plastic around his wrists. “Either you guys find McClane or get off. This car’s set to blow.” He jerks his head to where a bomb has been set into a corner. Matt can’t see any large red numbers ticking down, but Reeves is the expert, so he’s taking his word for it. “I’m going to try to defuse it, but anything can happen.”

“I’m looking,” Lucy says, moving quickly. Matt stumbles, but he catches up, pausing behind her when she pulls the door to leave the car.

They cross to the next one, wind rushing around them and Matt studiously not looking down. Lucy gets the door open, but suddenly her arm flies out, palm hitting Matt’s chest almost hard enough to make him lose his balance. He quickly figures out what’s happening when she swings around the side of the car, so he scurries around the opposite side, hanging on to the rail and keeping hidden.

A figure with long black hair exits the car and she steps over the gap to enter the back car. Matt hopes that Reeves can handle himself, because then Lucy’s swinging back over, pulling at Matt’s sleeve to get him to follow her into the second car.

Once in, she slides quickly behind another box of equipment. Matt follows, taking in the layout as fast as he can. Unlike the previous car, which had channeled the abandoned-warehouse look, this one’s _filled_ with hardware, most of which would normally make Matt choke on his own drool.

It’s easy to see that the mastermind’s all about control.

Lucy crawls near the wall, careful to keep herself low and hidden. Matt keeps up, peering through narrow space between boxes to the screens beyond.

There’s the rasp-click of a radio being turned on, and then a voice says, “Mai, did you find out about the gunshot?” After a pause, there’s another, more urgent, “Mai!”

“Maybe she’s busy.” This voice is McClane’s, flippant and taunting.

The angle’s weird, so he can’t see anything of McClane except his feet (one socked and one shoed), angled out from where he’s kneeling on the floor. What Matt _can_ see are four screens of CCTV footage – it looks like it may be of the buses, but it’s too far away to be sure – and another screen that’s clearly following some GPS information.

Surely this bad guy knows that the buses have blown up by now. The FBI think that their transmission fooled him, but if they took McClane from the airport in _person_, they would know that their plan’s foiled and the money exchange isn’t going to happen. Then what’s this guy up to?

Matt eyes travel further, finding another set of screens that show something that looks extremely suspect.

 

* * *

 

With Mai gone, John’s pretty sure he can take Gabriel on. The only thing stopping that from happening is the detonator in Gabe’s hand, one of his thumbs resting comfortably against a shiny red button. John has to time this right, waiting for when Gabe’s as distracted as—

Movement catches John’s eye. He freezes when he sees _Lucy _crawling low beneath a table.

He just barely stops himself from shouting _ What the fuck do you think you’re doing_, because that would be counterproductive and draw Gabriel’s attention to John’s only ally right now. The unspoken words pound in his head anyway, flaring his temper like it hasn’t since Lucy was thirteen and got into a fight with some kids on a weekend that he had custody; Holly hadn’t let him be alone with her for a long time after that.

Gabriel turns around, pausing when he sees the look on John’s face.

He knows that he has to stay calm, but knowing the logical importance of it doesn’t help much, because he sure as hell can’t concentrate when his baby girl is just a couple of feet away _Jesus Christ what the hell is she even doing here_.

“Are you having a heart attack?” Gabriel asks. He sounds surprised, but there may also be actual concern in his voice, which is hilarious.

“Could be,” John replies. It occurs to him that he has to let her know about the bomb and the detonator. He can calm himself down enough to do that. “Can’t say I know what it’s supposed to feel like, but it may have something to do with the fact that I have a bomb strapped to my chest.”

Gabriel’s walkie-talkie buzzes again. Mai’s voice comes through: “_We’ve been compromised. LAPD are on the train._”

“What?” Gabriel’s eyes briefly drop shut. If he were anyone else, John guesses that he’d be cursing up the wazoo now. “How many?”

“_One, that we’ve seen_,” Mai says. “_He got out of the car, but Emerson’s on him. I’m going to check that there’s no one else._”

“Be fast,” Gabriel says sharply. “We have to clear out.”

There’s the sound of footsteps running on top of the car, presumably belonging to whichever gung-ho cop Lucy managed to swindle into joining this little jaunt of hers. A second set of footsteps follow, and then there are the loud and unmistakable noises of two bodies clashing.

“Damn it,” Gabriel mutters, fingers loosening around the detonator.

John lunges, barreling into Gabriel and shoving him hard into a cabinet, but that only traps his legs, freeing the guy’s hands to – once he gets his breath back – twist and punch John in the face, causing him to reel backwards.

Lucy’s out of her hiding place, a gun aimed for Gabriel’s head. “Don’t move!”

Gabriel freezes, surprised. “Hello.”

“Put the detonator down.” Lucy taps the gun at the back of Gabriel’s head.

“I don’t think so.” Gabriel sounds far too calm. “Then it wouldn’t be a stand-off.”

“What do you think you’re doing?” John demands.

“What do you _think_ I’m doing?” Lucy says.

“I’ve got this handled!”

“I _know_!” Lucy’s eyes are still firmly on the back of Gabriel’s head, but the corners of her mouth crumple a little. “But I _had_ to. You’ve got to understand that.”

John wants to say that it’s different: he’s a _cop_, this is what he _does_. He almost does say it, but there’s that look on Lucy’s face again as she braces for his response, and it drives home just how alike they can be. His little baby Lucy, who makes her own stupid choices that may look like bravery but are just her being stubborn. Why couldn’t she have taken more after her mother that way?

“I said put that down!” Lucy presses the gun harder, forcing Gabriel’s head to shift a little. “What the – what are you _doing_, Matt?”

John turns his head. While the day hasn’t exactly been a conventional one by even _his_ standards, there is such a thing as _too _ many surprises, because that’s _Matt_ at the helm of Gabriel’s control station, tapping away at one of the keyboards. “Give me a sec, I think he’s—”

“We don’t have time for that!” Lucy yells.

“He’s transferring money!” Matt points at a screen. “See that! That’s a Swiss account! See those numbers! They’re not _supposed to go up like that_!”

“Ah, the _bus driver_,” Gabriel says, voice low with recognition.

“Can you stop it?” John asks.

“On it,” Matt says.

“Are you going to drop the detonator now, asshole?” Lucy says, pressing the gun harder.

Gabriel sighs and starts muttering something boring about repetition and inevitability, but John ignores that in favor of giving Lucy a look, nudging her gun-wielding hand with an elbow so he can ease between them to press right up against Gabe’s back, wired-up vest and all.

Gabriel’s voice trails off. He sounds thoughtful when he then says, “A loophole. Interesting.”

“Are you going to press that button now?” John asks.

Gabriel’s fingers fall open, and the detonator falls.

It goes a little crazy after that, Lucy ducking down to grab the detonator and John watching her do it, meaning that the gun’s sight is off Gabriel and he’s free to turn around and elbow John right in the chin.

It’s fucking annoying to have both hands behind his back, but Gabriel’s a punk, and John knows how to handle punks, even if they are well-dressed, well-funded and well-read punks. He gets Gabriel with a knee, a foot, and eventually a shoulder right to Gabriel’s pansy-man chin and sending him falling back to the floor with a very painful thump. He tries to get up, but John kicks him hard enough to keep him down.

Lucy, meanwhile, has gotten the battery out of the detonator and smashed it to the ground.

John sighs with relief. “Now someone get these cuffs off me.”

That relief lasts for _maybe_ two seconds, because Mai’s a fucking ghost. He barely registers the door opening before the mercenary bitch is right in his face, and unlike Gabriel, who talks well but is clumsy with his fists, Mai seems to be made for fighting, arms and legs barely visible as they hit target after target in quick succession. Though John’s been in many such fights in his lifetime (some with men twice his size and three times as mean), he’s never come up against someone who’s smaller, faster and more precise than he is, so even his blessed muscle memory isn’t sure what to do about it.

John’s back slams against a cabinet, head colliding with metal. Vision blurring, he slides down to the floor.

What he needs is a time out and something to cut these plastic handcuffs. In something that could pass for good luck, he gets both: Mai’s now busy tossing Lucy aside and ordering Matt to stop whatever he’s doing, while down on the floor John’s fingers sting where they brush against something sharp.

“I’m stopping, I’m stopping!” Matt says, hands up and getting out of Mai’s way.

Mai kicks him anyway, and then turns sharply to Lucy. “Don’t you even think about it.”

Gabriel coughs, slowly getting to his feet. “Mai, we’ve got to go.”

“Yes,” Mai says. “But the—”

“Leave it.” Gabriel’s a little shaky on his feet, but he waves Mai away when she reaches out to help him. “We haven’t much time left.”

Mai shakes her head, but she concedes with a soft, “Fine.”

That’s pretty much all the time-out John needs. His hands are free, his vision’s cleared, and he’s ready for Round 2.

And he likes the way Mai’s eyes go wide when he slams into her with a full-body tackle.

John’s ready this time, improvising all over the place and getting creative with anything he can get his hands on. (_Lucy and Matt are struggling with Gabriel, but he can’t think about that now, not now, not now._) He gets a few punches at her, but Mai takes it like a boxer and comes back for more, at one point somehow getting her hands around his head and slamming it into a cabinet. He’s still in the middle of reeling when Mai leaps on to his back, twisting cables around his neck and _squeezing_.

Now this isn’t fair. John’s in damn fine shape for someone who’s passed the middle-age marker, and is in many ways even better condition than he was ten years ago when he was too busy being a fucked-up barely-coherent mess. He fixed that, got over it, got _better_ – partially because there was nothing much else to do with his free time _except_ get better – and made a killing by betting against youngsters back East that he could take ‘em at arm wrestling.

So there’s no fucking way he’s going to lose this one. He’s not going to die here, doing this, with his baby girl in spitting distance.

Here’s a plan: get Mai to the door.

John spins, ignoring the burn in his lungs and the spots in his eyes, deliberately shifting back one foot after another to get them to the other end of the car.

A sudden gun shot in the car make Mai pause ever so briefly, so John flips her over and kicks – mistakenly with his bare foot.

Which she catches with her hands, and _ twists_.

John curses, falling on the floor with the _fuck-fucking-motherfucking_ burst of pain in his leg, hoping that the accompanying snapping sound is just in his head.

Mai smiles at him, the only real show of emotion she’s had so far, and approaches for seconds.

Two more gun shots, and Mai stills. John looks up at her, half expecting her to start spewing sparks, because that would make _so_ much sense.

Lucy steps forward, gun still pointed at Mai. She’s breathing heavily, eyes a little glazed. She’s never shot anyone before.

Someone screams – John mistakenly thinks it’s Mai, because screaming is something people do when they get shot, but it turns out that it’s _Gabriel_, twisting with rage where Matt’s got him pinned on the floor.

Holy _shit_, Mai staggers forward, injured but still coming; Lucy isn’t an experienced enough shooter to hit centre mass. Her eyes are dead set on John’s leg, looking like she wants to add to his newfound injury.

John puts his hands behind his back, fingers moving up the back of the vest until they find a clasp. There’s the chance that Gabriel’s put a tampering trigger in it, but he can only hope that his good luck has got this covered. It unclicks without exploding, and the vest goes slack.

Ripping it off smoothly, John throws it at Mai.

She catches it, stumbling backward a little, but not far enough to step out the threshold.

Gabriel may have lied about the sensor trigger, but John braces his good leg and then _kicks, _ sending his remaining shoe dead-centre towards Mai’s face.

The shoe doesn’t hit its target because Mai steps back instinctively, but that’s enough for the little vest to make a shrill little alarm sound, and then explode.

John’s halfway through exhaling when Gabriel, now free from Matt, descends on him.

The first punch does, in theory, hurt like hell, but all of John’s pain-related focus is on his _fucking fucked up_ leg, so he takes it easily, even managing a quick open-mouth chuckle in the pause between the first and second hit.

But before the third gets to its target, a keyboard swings in and slams Gabriel’s face, sending him stumbling backward.

Lucy, fingers still holding on to the keyboard, steps into John’s line of vision. She hits Gabriel again, and _again_, and when he finally falls to the ground, gasping and groaning, she snarls, “Yippee-ki-yay, mother_fucker_.”

John mutters, “Language.”

“Don’t tell mom,” she says. Lucy drops the keyboard and presses her bad wrist to her chest tightly – John could comment here, but he’s tired and hurting enough that he can’t work up any emotion stronger than reluctant gratitude that she’s more pissed at someone else than him right now.

Another noise brings John’s attention back to the doorway, hoping to God it isn’t the French mercenary, because he’s really not up for that right now. It thankfully turns out to be Officer Reeves, smudged and bloody, but all limbs still in one piece, the bastard.

“Where’s the other one? Frenchie?” John asks.

“Lost his head,” Reeves says, shrugging with one shoulder. “We’ve got to go. I heard them talking, they’ve got both these cars wired to explode in—” he pauses to glance at his watch, “—twelve minutes. I tried to defuse it, but I haven’t got the right equipment with me.”

“It’s probably to destroy the evidence,” John says, his head spinning but still working fine. He tilts his head up to where Matt’s standing next to the computers, looking a little shell-shocked. “Matt, salvage whatever you can from the computers for the Feds to look at later. Matt!”

He blinks back to life, turning to the computers. “Got it.”

“Officer Reeves, I’d like you to meet Thomas Gabriel,” he says, jerking his chin at where Gabriel’s on the floor, writhing and pressing his hands to his face.

“A pleasure,” Reeves says, taking Gabriel by the collar and pulling him to his feet. “There’s some very interested people who want to have a long chat with you.”

“You’re dead,” Gabriel slurs. “You’re _dead_, McClane.”

“I’m sure you believe that,” John sighs, “but I used to believe in Santa Claus.”

As Reeves starts to move Gabriel out of the car, John lies back down, panting softly through the pain. He’ll need whatever he has left to be able to jump off the train – not that he’s never jumped off a train before, but it’ll be a first for him to do it with a broken leg.

A sudden shout jerks him back, sitting up so sharply that a fresh set of pain explodes all over.

Gabriel, looking somewhat crazier with blood streaking down his chin and neck, has pulled away from Reeves and grabbed Lucy, pressing the fingers of one hand hard into her neck.

“Damn it!” Lucy hisses, choking when the fingers cut into her air supply.

Reeves reaches for the gun on his belt, but Gabriel’s already backed out of the car with Lucy, disappearing from view. John realizes that Gabriel means to _escape_, no matter how futile an attempt that may be right now.

“Get off the train, McClane!” Reeves says, just before he disappears after them.

“Matt!” John bellows. “Are you done?”

“He was hacking _everything_,” Matt says, “Utilities, communications, you name it. I think he was _ expecting _the Feds to mess with the Metro system, I’m not sure whether it’s to get a digital fingerprint or something else, but—”

“Matt, I just asked if you were done!”

“What, oh. Yeah.” Matt runs past to look out the open doorway for the others. “Hey, they’re off off the train.”

“Great,” John mutters, thumping his head against the floor. “C’mon, help me get up.”

“What, to jump?” Matt makes it sound like it’s the stupidest idea in the world.

“Don’t look at me like that, we’re not travelling that fast. Just tuck your head, you’ll be fine.”

“What about you?” Matt frowns. “Your leg’s broken.”

“I’ve had worse,” John says, though his memory’s a little foggy now and he can’t be absolutely sure if this is true.

But Matt doesn’t move at first. He looks out the open doorway, glances at his watch, and then, when he finally does move, it’s to go behind where John’s lying on the floor. His fingers dig into the shoulders of John’s shirt, and he starts dragging.

“What are you doing?” John says, vaguely feeling like a potato sack and not liking it one bit.

“From what little I saw, Gabriel was planning a nationwide fuck up the likes of which would be majorly catastrophic. Boy, you’re heavy.” Matt pauses for a moment before continuing to drag John towards the other end of the car. “This, the whole thing with the buses? I think it’s like a warm-up. He’s learning how the police and Feds react, their response time, their tactics; got it all recorded down nice and neat.”

“Matt, why are you even _here_?” John demands.

“Why do people keep asking me that?” Matt exclaims, annoyed. Having reached the other end of the car, he pushes the door open, grunting only a little from the effort. “I also think he was planning on going national soon, there were some GPS maps in there at the same level of detail as LA.” He steps over to the next car and pushes that door open. “Think you can cross?”

John looks. “Yeah, I think I can.” He takes Matt’s hand, pulling himself up and keeping his weight on one foot, willing himself not to think about how getting shot is in some ways _less_ painful than this right now.

“And to top that off,” Matt says, sliding under John’s arm and helping him make that one impossibly-wide step to the next car, “While he’s been messing around with us all morning, he’s been taking advantage of the distraction by quietly siphoning money in small, barely-noticeable amounts from various LA-based accounts to fund his next round of fun and games.”

John sits down on the floor of the next car, baring his teeth and cursing soundlessly. “He did say it wasn’t about the ransom today… But_ why_ do any of it at all_?_”

“Hey man, I just read it like I see it,” Matt says, gesturing at the backpack John hadn’t seen him put on. “It’s all right here in the hard drives, I hope I got them all. The Feds are gonna _piss their pants_ when they see how much intel Gabe’s got from today.”

John looks around at the new car. This one actually looks like it’s being used for what it’s made for, filled with harmless-looking wood cargo boxes. Matt’s still talking as he steps back outside and gets working on uncoupling the back cars.

“We may never know what he’s up to, though,” Matt says, pressing against the pin. He steps up quickly when it makes a loud _clank_ and the back cars starts drifting back slowly. He’s smiling as he comes back to John’s side and helps him move farther up the car. “But I’m thinking that’s a good thing, if _this_ is what he considers a trial run. You know, I remembered that I left all my other stuff in the bus. That’s going to be a bitch to recover.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll put in a good word for you,” John says, gingerly letting himself fall flat on the floor. “But d’you know what I’m gonna do right now? I’m gonna take a nap.”

Matt’s mouth twitches. “You would.”

The other car explodes. Presumably both of the back cars go at the same time, but it’s not like they can see it from where they are. All John can see (just before he closes his eyes) is the bright flash of one train car spontaneously combusting with glorious C4-aided aplomb.

Suddenly the train screeches, emergency brakes kicking in.

“Shit!” Momentum hits in, sending him in a slide across the floor so sharp that he almost doesn’t register the sudden weight across his chest.

When he opens his eyes, he realizes the weight on his chest’s the result of Matt sprawled on top of him, covering him in a way he fuzzily realizes might be _protective_, ain’t that hilarious. John’s arms come up, holding Matt in place just before the back car slams into them.

They jerk forward, sliding further up the car and until John’s shoulder catches the edge of the box and they twist around, Matt grunting when his back collides with a wall.

But that seems to be it, and they lie like that for a while, the car rocking as it steadies itself.

John thinks he hears shouting somewhere, but that could just be in his head, so he focuses on breathing steadily. The endorphins are kicking in now, and he can _almost_ pretend that all he’s got is sprain.

Matt makes a noise as he pulls up, hands going frantic on his chest. “Are you okay? Did you hurt anything?”

“Anything _else_, you mean.”

“Well, yeah.” Matt smiles, but his eyes are still worried.

John belated realizes that his hand is still on Matt’s neck. It’s a strange feeling, Matt’s hair soft where it’s brushing against the calloused roughness of fingers. Matt himself is shaking a little, pulse rapid beneath John’s thumb and just _looking _at John, before turning away quickly with something that might be embarrassment.

Maybe it’s the endorphins messing up his senses, making him see something in Matt’s face that isn’t actually there; maybe it’s because John’s subconsciously decided that he hasn’t fulfilled his quota of crazy things done for the day. Whatever it is, he’s suddenly aware that Matt is _really_ close, and if he tugs just a _little_ bit more, Matt comes even closer for some quick lip-on-lip action.

Matt jerks back, shocked.

John chuckles softly, carelessly – maybe he _did_ read it wrong. The kid could write it off as John being loopy on the whole nearly-dead thing, not that anyone would believe him if he told them, anyway.

Something low in John’s pants starts buzzing. He laughs again; it’s the fucking _communicator_. After all that’s happened, it’s still there and apparently still working.

John forces himself to sit up, stiff fingers working the complicated buttons of his pockets to get to the phone. “Al, that better be you, buddy.”

“_Detective McClane, this is Detective Johnson. Sergeant Powell is preoccupied now but—_”

John passes the phone to Matt, whose fingers fumble at the sudden gesture. “FBI. Tell ‘em I’m having a nap.”

Matt takes the phone and starts talking, introducing himself and awkwardly reporting what they’ve just been up to. That leaves John to shift a little, finding find a spot where he can lean back against a box and close his eyes so he won’t have to look at his injured leg. He _knew_ it was a bad omen when he lost that damn shoe.

“…that’s good,” Matt says. “Yeah, McClane needs to get a hospital immediately, it looks pretty bad…”

John laughs again. More hospital time, more bandages, and this time a cast for his leg. Then it’s back to Brooklyn, a desk job for a couple of months (oh what fun), and then, who knows? Maybe with his being unable to walk, Lucy and Jack might want to visit him for a change, wishful thinking or not.

Matt’s touching his shoulder. “Uh, McClane?”

He opens his eyes. “What?”

“Agent Johnson said that there’s a helicopter on the way,” Matt says. “Lucy’d sent a message to Sergeant, uh, Powell, I think, earlier, letting him know where we were, but I guess they got a little delayed trying to get here.”

“I can fly a helicopter, you know,” John says. “Took lessons and everything.”

“Really,” Matt says. He sits back on his haunches, just looking at him. “Why am I not surprised.”

“Don’t have my license yet.”

“Like that would stop you.”

John laughs thin little “heh heh hehs” that make his chest hurt a little with the effort but relieve other tight spots at the back of his head. He can feel Matt still looking at him, so he meets his gaze easily, raising an eyebrow to dare him to say something.

“Matthew Farrell,” Matt says, finally. “I prefer Matt, but yeah.” He sticks his hand out.

John looks at the hand, then shakes it. “John McClane.”

“Nice to meet you, John,” Matt says.

“Welcome to LA, Matt,” John laughs, and Matt’s eyes crinkle before he, too, bursts out laughing.

It’s not funny, except where it’s hilarious, and John’s head is starting to spin, so he has to get a hand on Matt’s shoulder to steady himself. “That Reeves kid had better not have let our good friend Gabe get away.”

“I’ll go find out.” Matt gets to his feet and, after a few false starts, manages to get the car door open.

The air smells of fumes and smoke, but John inhales deeply anyway. “Help me get down.”

Matt looks at him. “You’re still injured.”

“Then let me be injured on solid ground,” John says. “They’ll have to splint me outside anyway, there’s no space in here.”

“I think you’re bullshitting me, but it’s not like I’d know, right?” Matt leans down, taking John’s arm over his shoulder and getting him to his feet. They take a moment to get their balance, John trying to find how to crook his knee with the _least_ amount of pain, when he feels Matt lips on his cheek.

John pulls back a little, so that Matt can take in the full effect of his expression. “Matt, the only people who kiss me on the cheek are my sister, my daughter, and that little old lady who does my dry cleaning.”

Matt flushes. “Nasty.” And he kisses John properly.

It’s nice, though it would be much nicer if John weren’t all beat up and his leg throbbing like there’s hot coals running down his pants. It’s something to look forward to later, when he can better appreciate it. Especially if Matt does that thing with his tongue again.

“Better?” Matt asks, when he pulls back.

“Much,” John says, unable to suppress a smirk when Matt turns away, studiously trying not to blush. “Now help me get down.”

Lucy’s voice is shrill, though muffled by distance. “Daddy!”

“Hey,” John says, now grinning widely. “In here, Lucy!”

She appears around the opening, breathing heavily from the effort of running. “Oh thank god, I didn’t see you jump, so I thought…” She looks like she wants to start scolding him again, but the moment passes and she’s jumping on to the car, reaching for him. “Let’s get you down.”

“Sergeant Johnson called,” Matt says, adjusting his grip when Lucy takes John’s other arm. “Said that help’s on the way.”

“I just _love_ their timing, don’t you?” Lucy says.

“Be nice, Luce,” John says. “Did you call your mother?”

“Yes, dad,” Lucy says.

“Call her again,” John says. “Let her know that we’re okay. Oh, be sure to tell her that it’s not my fault that you decided to be a damn hero today, because you know she’s going to be all over my ass on that.”

Lucy sighs. “Yes, dad.”

On the other side, Matt laughs softly.

“You got something to say, Bus Driver?” Lucy says.

“Nah, I just remembered that I left the boots in the car,” Matt says. “You know, the ones I got for shoeless here.”

“You got me boots?” John grins. “Aww, you shouldn’t have.”

There’s always a moment like this as the rush of the day’s events wears down, leaving behind something still that could pass for happiness before the rest of reality catches up with them. John basks in it, letting Lucy and Matt set him down on to solid ground, their voices a comforting chatter in the foreground while in the background there’s the faint sound of a helicopter approaching from far away.

Then John lets himself have the nap that he deserves.

* * *

 

**Epilogue**

Matt looks up from his laptop. “Hey, I got an email from Lucy.”

John gives him a look. “You asked _ her_ for suggestions on what to do for our one-year anniversary?”

“Shut up and read,” Matt says, pushing his laptop towards John.

John frowns as he reads the ad. “A boat cruise? Fuck it, let’s just stay in.”

And they do.


End file.
